Double Scotch Read online

  Double Scotch

  The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries

  Book Four

  Steven Henry

  Clickworks Press • Baltimore, MD

  Also by the Author

  The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries

  Black Velvet

  Irish Car Bomb

  White Russian

  Double Scotch

  Manhattan (coming soon)

  * * *

  The Clarion Chronicles

  Ember of Dreams

  Copyright © 2018 Steven Henry

  Cover design © 2018 Ingrid Henry

  Cover photo used under license from iStockPhoto.com (Credit: quavondo/iStockPhoto)

  NYPD shield photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Stephen Mulcahey/Shutterstock)

  Author photo © 2017 Shelley Paulson Photography

  Spine image used under license from iStockPhoto.com (Credit: gresei/iStockShoto)

  All rights reserved.

  First publication: Clickworks Press, 2018

  Release: CWP-EOR4-INT-VE-1.3.1

  * * *

  Sign up for updates, deals, and exclusive sneak peeks at clickworkspress.com/join.

  * * *

  ISBN-10: 1-943383-45-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-45-0

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For all the real life K-9 officers and their partners.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Sneak Peek: Manhattan

  Ready for more?

  About the Author

  Also by Steven Henry

  More Great Titles from Clickworks Press

  Double Scotch on the Rocks

  * * *

  Place ice cubes in a whiskey glass. Pour 3 oz. Scotch whiskey over ice. Serve.

  Chapter 1

  “Rolf! Fass!” Erin O'Reilly snapped.

  Her partner sprang into action. His feet barely touched the ground as he charged. The perp didn't try to run. That was smart; Rolf was faster than any man in New York. Instead, the poor guy threw his arm out in front of himself.

  Rolf had him. His teeth snapped shut on the man's arm. With a terrific snarl, all ninety pounds of German Shepherd piled into the guy. As Rolf drove his target in a stumbling backward sprawl, the dog's tail wagged enthusiastically. He was having a great time.

  “Okay! Okay!” the victim said. “I give up!”

  “Rolf! Pust!” Erin ordered, giving the command in the dog's native German. Rolf obediently let go of the man's sleeve and returned to Erin's side, tail still wagging. “Good boy,” she said, holding out his favorite rubber Kong ball. Rolf immediately clamped his teeth on the toy and began happily gnawing at it.

  “Good boy?” Vic Neshenko echoed, brushing at the sleeve of his bite-suit. “He almost bit clean through.”

  “Sure,” Erin said, watching her K-9 play. “You're supposed to feel it. If he doesn't bite hard, then what's the point?”

  “I got an idea,” her fellow detective said. “Next time, you wear the suit, I'll give the orders. We'll see how you like that.”

  “I've been in the suit,” she said. “K-9 school, everybody wears the suit sometimes, to help the other guys train their dogs.”

  “Like Tasers,” Vic muttered. “Gotta ride the lightning before they let you carry 'em.”

  “At least they don't have the same rule for sidearms,” Erin said.

  That shut both of them up for a minute. It had been almost a month since their gunfight at JFK Airport. Erin and Vic had both killed men that night. They'd been clean shootings—as clean as taking a life could be—but it was something neither of them really wanted to talk about.

  Now they were in Central Park, taking advantage of an unseasonably cool late-July day to get some outdoor training done. Erin worked Rolf every day, but she was the one person on earth he would never bite, so she needed to partner up for bite-work. Vic hadn't exactly jumped at the opportunity, but Vic wasn't jumping at anything these days. His bullet wounds had healed nicely, so that he hardly limped at all, but his spirit had taken a beating.

  Erin worried about him. Vic had always been a surly guy, but since their last case, he'd been downright unpleasant. She knew why. It was his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, of course. When a girl set a guy up to be killed, it put a lot of stress on the relationship. Even though it hadn't been the girl's idea, or her choice, and she'd tried to walk it back, the experience had left Detective Neshenko with an even worse view of human nature than he'd had before.

  Erin wanted to help him, but wasn't sure how. Hell, she had her own issues. The first week after the shootings, she'd had nightmares every single night. She kept waking up in a cold sweat, seeing muzzle flashes in the dark, grabbing for her Glock automatic in the nightstand. At least she hadn't shot any holes in her ceiling. Thank God for good trigger discipline. The dreams had spaced themselves out lately, and her temper wasn't flaring up like it had, but she knew she wasn't quite herself yet.

  “It's been quiet,” she said to fill the silence. “That's something.” Their Major Crimes unit hadn't had anything on their plate for nearly a week. That was one reason Lieutenant Webb hadn't objected to them taking some time out of the office.

  “Great,” Vic said. “Just fantastic.”

  “What?” she said. “You tired of moping around, ready to get off the bench?”

  “I don't mope,” Vic said.

  “What do you call it, then?”

  “I'm Russian,” he said. “We brood.”

  He smiled. Just a little, but it was a smile, and that was progress. Maybe there was hope for him.

  “You hoping we catch a case?” she asked.

  “Beats being a chew-toy,” he said. “I'm sick of sitting around doing nothing.”

  Rolf, realizing Erin's distraction, stopped chewing on his ball. He held it in his mouth and stared over it at Erin. His tail went back and forth in a slow, hopeful wave.

  Erin's phone buzzed in her pocket. “Pust!” she ordered Rolf, who dropped his toy at once. She fished out the phone and saw Webb's name on the screen.

  “O'Reilly,” she said.

  “You got Neshenko with you?” her commanding officer asked.

  “Most of him.”

  “Okay, the two of you get down to Corlears Hook Park,” Webb said.

  “What've we got?” she asked.

  “Looks like a double homicide,” he said.

  “On our way,” Erin said, disconnecting. She looked at Vic. “Looks like you got your wish. Time to go back to work.”

  Corlears Hook lay on the southeastern edge of Manhattan, on the bank of the East River. By the time Vic, Erin, and Rolf arrived, in Erin's brand-new unmarked police Charger, the uniforms had established a perimeter of yellow tape. Half a dozen officers were there, along with a couple of unnecessary paramedics who were finishing packing up their gear.

  Detective Kira Jones waved them over to the shoreline. She'd recently re-dyed her hair, a habit picked up from her days as a liaison with the gang task force. Its tips were a brig
ht, electric blue that made it easy to pick her out of a crowd.

  “Where's the LT?” Erin asked.

  “With Levine,” Jones said, gesturing with her thumb. “We just got here.”

  Sarah Levine was the Medical Examiner. She and Lieutenant Webb were standing near the water's edge, staring at a couple of lumpy shapes wedged in among the rocks. Levine was wearing a white lab coat, wire-rimmed glasses, and a thoughtful expression. Webb had his hands on his hips and a cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth.

  “What've we got, sir?” Erin asked, stepping carefully on the slippery stones. Rolf, catching the scent, alerted her to the presence of a dead body.

  “Two victims,” Webb said. He took the cigarette from his mouth and used it as a pointer. “Jogger saw the crows going at them, wondered what was there.”

  “Where's the runner?” Vic asked.

  “Going over her statement,” Webb said, cocking his head. “She didn't see much. As soon as she figured out she was looking at bodies, she called it in.”

  Erin peered past Levine at the bodies. She couldn't make out much. “What do you think, Doc?” she asked.

  Levine didn't look at her. “They were washed up here,” the ME said. “This isn't where they died.”

  “Two bodies, washed up together?” Erin said. “That happen often?”

  “Depends on the currents,” Levine said. “I'll need to look at the charts.”

  “What are the chances they're related?” Erin said.

  “Won't know till I do the bloodwork,” Levine said. “They're both adult males, so it's possible they might be brothers.”

  “What I meant is,” Erin said, “are we looking at separate incidents?”

  “Unlikely,” Levine said. “Judging from the condition of the bodies, they probably went into the water at about the same time. My best estimate, until I study them further, is that they died within the last twenty-four hours, probably between ten and midnight.”

  “Accident, or foul play?” Erin asked.

  “Check the hands,” Vic said, entering the conversation.

  Erin followed his look. The body he was examining was face-down. Its hands were secured with a cheap plastic zip-tie.

  “Tied up,” Webb said. “Definitely homicide.”

  Erin bent over to see more closely. “There's something wrong with that hand,” she said.

  “All five fingernails have been torn off,” Levine said.

  “Could that have been caused by something in the water?” Erin asked. She thought she knew the answer already, but was hoping to hear different.

  The other three all shook their heads. “Torture,” Vic muttered.

  “Preliminary cause of death is a single gunshot wound to the back of the cranium,” Levine said. “Probably a handgun, thirty-eight caliber, maybe nine-millimeter.”

  “And the other victim?” Webb asked.

  “The other body presents identically,” Levine said. “The hands are secured behind the back, a single gunshot wound to the head. The only difference is that both hands on the second one are intact.”

  “Tied up, interrogated, and executed,” Webb said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Then chucked into the river. We know where they came from?”

  “Again, I'll need to check a chart of the currents,” Levine said with a touch of annoyance.

  “Could've come from anywhere,” Vic said. “Bridge, boat, whatever.”

  “You got all the pictures you need?” Webb asked Levine. One of the ME's lab-techs was snapping shots of the corpses from every possible angle.

  “Not quite,” Levine said. “We need a few more minutes.”

  “Okay, get them out of the water as soon as you're done,” he said. “We need IDs on them ASAP. And I want you back in the lab right away.”

  Levine gave him a curious look. “Where else would I go?”

  He sighed. “Never mind. I want you to double-check cause of death. Get me a bullet, if the rounds didn't exit the skulls. Print 'em, check dental records. And get started on the clothes, see if we've got fibers, chemicals, anything that didn't wash out in the river.”

  Levine's annoyance was becoming more obvious. “Lieutenant, I do several examinations every week,” she said. “I have a medical doctorate.”

  “Okay, okay,” Webb said, holding up his hands. “I just want you to move this one to the head of the line. Anything you can tell us will help.”

  “How cold was it last night?” Erin broke in. She was still looking at the bodies.

  “Seventy-five, give or take,” Jones said. “Why?”

  “These guys are dressed pretty warm,” Erin said. Both dead men were clad in wool sweaters, one gray, one dark green. The body on the left also had a watch cap on his head. The bullet hole had entered his skull just below its edge.

  “Yeah,” Webb said. “Sailors, you think?”

  “Looks like it,” Vic said.

  “That raises a question of jurisdiction,” Jones said.

  “Our bodies, our problem,” Vic said.

  “We're Major Crimes,” Webb reminded Jones. “It doesn't matter where the body came from.”

  “It matters if they were on a ship over the Jersey border,” Jones said. “The state line runs through the harbor, and depending on where the boat was at the time they were killed, if we can even figure that out. Of course, it's probably a Port Authority matter in any case...”

  “Oh, for Christ's sake,” Vic said.

  “Until we know where they came from, they're ours,” Webb said. “You really want to worry about that bureaucratic bullshit now?”

  “I thought that was your job, sir,” Erin said with false innocence.

  “May you make Lieutenant someday,” Webb said. “And may you on that day be blessed with detectives of your own, just like you.”

  “I bet he says the same thing to his kids,” Jones said out of the side of her mouth.

  “Not much of a crime scene,” Vic said. “This is just where they fetched up.”

  “I agree,” Webb said. “But we'll need the CSU guys to comb the rocks anyway, in case any other evidence washed up.”

  They all took a moment to look at the shoreline. Empty bottles, plastic bags, and all sorts of trash were scattered everywhere. If there was anything relevant, it would be a needle in a haystack of random litter. Jones said what each of them was thinking.

  “Those poor bastards.”

  Chapter 2

  Until Levine started getting her lab work done, there wasn't a lot for the detectives to do. No IDs, no cell phones. They ran the fingerprints right away, of course, but got no matches in the NYPD database. Jones ran the prints by the FBI and Homeland Security, just to be thorough, and came up empty there, too.

  The clothes were something to go on, so that was where Vic and Erin started. The two dead men had been wearing sweaters and trousers, one pair of slacks, one pair of corduroys, brown leather shoes, turtleneck shirts, and one watch cap. The lab needed to check for fibers that might've been transferred from the perp, but in the meantime, they had the clothing labels.

  “Ghillie Brogues?” Vic said, looking at the pictures the CSU guys had snapped of the first man's shoes. “The hell kind of a name is that? Look, they say 'Thistle' on the bottom. That sound like something you want on your feet?”

  “They also say 'Scotland,'” Erin pointed out. She went to her computer and quickly found that Ghillie Brogues could be bought in the UK or in America. Or anywhere at all, thanks to the Internet. “Maybe these guys are from Britain. Nice looking shoes.”

  Vic shrugged. “Basic guy's shoe.”

  “Not exactly a sailor's shoe,” Erin said. They looked more like dress shoes to her, and there wasn't enough tread for them to be practical for shipboard wear.

  Vic shrugged again. He didn't seem too interested.

  Erin didn't have the patience to deal with his sulking. She checked the shoe sizes and noted them down, then moved on to the other clothing. All of it had been made in the
British Isles. She duly put that information up on the department whiteboard. Next to the photos of the dead men, she wrote “British/Scottish?”

  Webb wandered over. “Got anything?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Vic said. “Erin's got it narrowed down to about ten million suspects.”

  “No suspects yet,” she said. “Not even close to an ID. But I think we should see about ships coming over from the UK.”

  “Erin,” Jones called over, “do you have any idea how much cargo comes through the harbor?”

  “Not really,” Erin said, with a sinking feeling that she was about to find out.

  “The port handled about three million incoming cargo containers,” Jones said. “Last year alone. Going out, another three million, give or take.”

  “How much of that from Britain?” Webb asked.

  “Port Authority would have the exact numbers,” Jones said, working her keyboard. “But two and a half percent of the imports come from the United Kingdom. Four percent of the exports head there. So that works out to... let's see... about seventy-five thousand containers coming in, and a hundred and twenty K going out. Roughly.”

  “You should've been an accountant,” Vic said. “Why are you a cop?”

  Jones shrugged. “Follow the money. That's what I've always heard about solving cases.”

  “That's gotta be a lot of ships,” Erin said.

  “Between one and two hundred a day,” Jones said. “Figure maybe a dozen to or from the UK.”