Manhattan Read online

  Manhattan

  The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries

  Book Five

  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

  Black Magic (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-EOR5-INT-VE-1.0

  * * *

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

  * * *

  ISBN-10: 1-943383-48-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-48-1

  * * *

  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 the first responders, the ones who run toward the gunshots and into the fire.

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Sneak Peek: Black Magic

  Ready for more?

  Our Latest Recommendation

  About the Author

  Also by Steven Henry

  More Great Titles from Clickworks Press

  Manhattan

  * * *

  Combine 1 oz. rye whiskey, .5 oz. sweet vermouth, and 3 dashes of aromatic bitters over ice. Stir and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a cherry and serve.

  Chapter 1

  Erin O’Reilly walked into the Barley Corner with Rolf, her partner, at her side. The pub was full of the usual patrons, mostly male, mostly Irish. It was just after work, so the majority were still sober. She made her way toward the bar, threading through the crowd. A lot of women would’ve felt uncomfortable in that setting. She knew she was attractive, and she kept up her athletic figure with an early-morning run every day. But the regulars at the Corner knew Erin, and while several pairs of eyes followed her appreciatively, no one said anything or stepped out of line. They knew she was off-limits.

  That was because Erin was a cop, a detective with the Major Crimes Division. And there was Erin’s partner to consider. Rolf was ninety pounds of highly-trained German Shepherd K-9. Plus, she was tight with the Corner’s proprietor, Morton “Cars” Carlyle, and nobody wanted to be on his bad side. Carlyle was a wiseguy, middle management in the O’Malley branch of the Irish Mob.

  She nodded a greeting to the bartender as she slipped onto a stool. “Evening, Danny.” Rolf sat beside the barstool and watched the room.

  “Evening, Erin,” Danny said, grinning cheerfully. “You on the clock?”

  “Just punched out.”

  “Usual, then?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Danny slid a shot of Glen D whiskey across the bar to her. He didn’t ask for payment. Erin had saved Carlyle’s life three months earlier when hitmen had shown up gunning for him. Before that, she’d helped disarm a bomb practically out of Danny’s own hands. As long as the Corner was under Carlyle’s management, Erin drank on the house.

  She’d become a regular at the Corner. It was the closest bar to her apartment, a few minutes’ easy walk, and it was a classy joint, in spite of the clientele. Or maybe because of them. Carlyle kept his place in order.

  The strangest thing about Erin’s life these days was her growing relationship with Carlyle. Even a kid could tell they were natural enemies. What preschooler didn’t know how to play cops and robbers? But fate had lined them up on the same side more than once. Erin had protected Carlyle’s business, and his life, and in return he’d helped her close a couple of cases. In the process, they’d come to understand one another. They lived in the same world and knew its rules better than any outsider. There were things she couldn’t ask him, and things he couldn’t tell her, but as long as they stayed off those subjects, they got along great.

  As if she’d called him, there he was at her elbow, a handsome, silver-haired Irishman, a few years older than she, impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit and matching tie. “Evening, darling,” he said. “I hope Danny’s taking good care of you?”

  “Always,” she said with a smile. “How’s business?”

  “Oh, grand. God pours souls into Irishmen, a publican pours spirits into them.”

  She laughed. “You’re just lucky they don’t bring back Prohibition.”

  “Are you serious? I’d see my profits grow tenfold if the government ever did such a foolish thing.”

  “You’re probably right,” she admitted. “My dad said that turned more cops dirty than anything else in New York history.” Erin’s dad had been a Patrol officer with the NYPD.

  Both of them recognized they were skating close to dangerous ground. Carlyle changed the subject.

  “You strike me as rather cheerful compared to the end of your typical workday. Did you close a significant case?”

  “It’s actually been pretty quiet,” she said ruefully.

  “Surely a lack of serious crime is something your lads ought to celebrate.”

  Erin laughed again. “Mostly we just get bored and bitch at each other. This is more of a personal thing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ought I to order a drink of my own?”

  “Depends. I just got some good news.”

  “Then I’ll surely share a drink with you,” Carlyle said. He raised a finger to Danny, and a drink appeared in front of him. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Remember the serial killer thing a couple months back?”

  “Aye.”

  “Captain Holliday was impressed,” she said. “They’re bumping me up to Detective Second Grade, effective at the start of next week.”

  “Ah, Erin, that’s grand news!” Carlyle exclaimed. He clinked his glass against hers. “You’ve not been a detective long. I’m glad to see they’re already aware of your quality.”

  She’d been surprised by the news herself. The captain had called her into his office at the end of the shift, given her a brisk handshake and a nod, and said, “Good work, Detective. Keep it up.” For Holliday, that counted as a strong display of emotion.

  “At this rate, you’ll be Commissioner of Police by the time you’re forty,” Carlyle went on.

  “I’d rather have my fingernails pulled,” she said, grimacing. “Without anesthetic.”

  “Always the woman of action,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Never the bureaucrat.”

  “If I’d wanted a d
esk job, there’s plenty out there.”

  Carlyle glanced away for a moment, catching movement near the door. Erin followed his look and saw a slender, red-haired man threading the crowd toward them. She recognized him immediately; James Corcoran, Carlyle’s best friend. He’d been trying to charm Erin into bed since the moment they’d met, and had nearly succeeded before she’d found out that, in addition to being witty, friendly, and sexy as hell, he was a notorious smuggler, sometime knife-fighter, and another member of the O’Malleys. Corky had taken Erin’s brushoff as nothing but a temporary setback at first and continued flirting with her whenever they met. He’d backed off a little, but Erin wasn’t sure he’d given up hope.

  “Oh God,” she said, but she smiled as she said it. It was hard not to like Corky.

  “He’ll be pleased to drink to your news, I’ll warrant,” Carlyle said.

  “He’ll drink to anything,” she retorted. “He’d drink to the end of the world.”

  “And say it wasn’t a moment too soon,” Carlyle agreed. He shifted his attention to Corky and his welcoming smile faded. “What’s up?” he said more sharply.

  Corky’s usual boyish grin was nowhere in sight. His green eyes were as cold and serious as Erin had ever seen, and that included the time she’d stood next to him while he held a live explosive device. “We need to talk,” he said, ignoring Erin completely. That was unprecedented. As long as Corky had a pulse, he noticed attractive women.

  “I suppose we do,” Carlyle said. Always the gentleman, he turned to Erin. “Will you please excuse us?”

  She nodded. “Sure.” But she was worried. From the look of them, some serious shit had just gone down in their world. And in their world, bad news usually meant bodies.

  The two Irishmen left the bar and went quickly to the back of the room, through the door that led to Carlyle’s private upstairs suite. Erin watched them go, wanting to follow them, to ask questions, but knowing she’d get no answers. She wondered whether she’d find out from the other side, when the fallout from their troubles crossed her own desk.

  “Get you anything else?” Danny asked on his way from one end of the bar to the other. Erin looked down and saw that her glass was empty. She also saw that Carlyle hadn’t finished his own drink, nor taken it with him. This was serious, all right.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She started, then fished it out, feeling a little silly for her nerves. She saw the name of her commanding officer on her caller ID and sighed. Lieutenant Webb didn’t make courtesy calls. This was business.

  She thumbed her screen. “O’Reilly.”

  “Where are you?” Webb asked. No small talk, straight to the point.

  “At a bar.”

  “Not drunk, are you?”

  “No, sir. Just had one.”

  “Okay, get back here right now.”

  “Sure thing.” She pushed back from the bar and hopped off the stool. Rolf followed. “What’ve we got?”

  “A 10-13 just came over the net.”

  Erin didn’t understand. The code for an officer needing assistance was important, sure, but they wouldn’t rope in an off-duty detective for it. There were literally thousands of officers already on duty who could respond more quickly. “I’ll get there as quick as I can, but—”

  He cut her off. “It’s too late for that. We got an officer down.”

  Her heart lurched. “We have units on scene?”

  “Yeah,” Webb said. But she already knew from his tone what he was going to say. “We lost him.”

  She didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Who is it?”

  Webb hesitated a second too long. Names chased each other through her brain. She felt like she was going to throw up.

  “He’s one of ours,” he said. “From the Eighball. It’s Hendricks, a rookie. Bob Michaelson’s partner.”

  Erin had to stop moving for a second and close her eyes. She knew Michaelson. “What happened?”

  “We’re detectives, O’Reilly. It’s our job to find that out.”

  Chapter 2

  The scene of the shooting was just off FDR Drive, near the East River. A full squadron of NYPD cruisers had deployed on Fletcher Street, under FDR. Grim-faced uniformed officers were everywhere. Erin even saw half a dozen guys in full ESU tactical gear, assault rifles in their hands.

  The other members of Erin’s squad were already there. Vic Neshenko gave her a curt nod. Kira Jones looked at Erin with haunted eyes.

  “Hey, Erin,” Kira said quietly.

  “Hey,” Erin replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “I heard they pushed you up to Second Grade,” Vic said to Erin by way of greeting.

  “Yeah.” She hadn’t wanted to bring it up. Vic was still a Detective Third Grade, and had been wearing a gold shield longer than her. She wasn’t sure how he felt about her being bumped past him.

  “I suppose that means you’re gonna be looking for more respect,” he said.

  “No, I expect you’ll still be an asshole.”

  “Okay. No problem, then.”

  If Vic ever went to prison, he’d never get time off for good behavior, but Erin liked him. However surly he got, he was rock solid when things went sideways. There was no man in the NYPD she’d prefer to have watching her back.

  “How long had Hendricks been wearing his shield?” she wondered aloud.

  “The hell would I know? I guess maybe he was with the last Academy class.”

  “Jesus,” Erin said. “On the Job less than a year.”

  “It’s always the newbies that get it,” he said. “They can’t read the street yet.”

  “That’s why they have training officers,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Vic said. “What the hell was Michaelson doing, letting this happen? He’s been around longer than God. Never lost another partner.”

  “I’ll bet Michaelson’s asking himself the same thing,” Erin said. She was thinking of John Brunanski, the officer who’d died holding her hand. She still thought about what she could’ve, should’ve done differently, all the ways she could’ve saved him.

  “Hell of a thing,” Vic said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, team,” Webb said. “We’re all thinking it. This is a shitty situation. But every case we get is shit. They don’t call Major Crimes over parking tickets. Let’s work the case and get it solved.”

  The crime scene was obvious. A squad car was angled across the narrow street, both front doors standing open. The detectives gathered around the car and stared. The passenger-side window was a maze of cracked safety glass. It had three bullet holes, tightly grouped. Blood was spattered on the door panel and pooled on the pavement. Discarded bits of packaging for first-aid supplies were strewn around. There was no body.

  “Where’s Hendricks?” Webb asked the nearest uniform.

  “I heard they took him to Bellevue,” the officer replied.

  “Small world,” Erin muttered. Her oldest brother was a trauma surgeon there.

  “What’s that, Detective?” the patrolman asked.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  Bob Michaelson was sitting on the curb a little ways off. He was a heavyset Patrol sergeant in his mid- forties. Today, he looked twice that old. The other officers had given Michaelson some respectful space, so he sat all alone. He was covered with blood. Hands, face, uniform. Someone had put a paper cup of coffee in his hand. He didn’t seem to have noticed it.

  “Poor guy,” Kira said softly.

  Webb sighed. “Let’s get this over with.” They walked to stand in front of Michaelson. He didn’t look up.

  Webb cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Sergeant.”

  Michaelson raised his head. He looked straight through Webb.

  “What happened, Bob?” Webb asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  “Normal patrol,” Michaelson said. He sounded hoarse, like a man who’d smoked too many cigarettes. “
Same shit, different day. We came down Maiden Lane. I saw that door,” he waved a hand indifferently toward the building behind him, “and spotted a possible forced entry.”

  Erin looked over Michaelson’s shoulder. Sure enough, the warehouse at his back had a door that was standing ajar. She could see splintered wood on the doorframe, probably from a crowbar.

  “Tim called it in,” Michaelson went on. “I parked across Fletcher. Just then, the break-in crew came out.”

  “Carrying anything?” Webb asked.

  “Duffel bags,” Michaelson said. “Three suspects. Tim wanted to bust them right there, but I got an ID on their leader. I told Tim to call for backup, to fall back. But the kid wanted the collar. You know how rookies are. He was out of the car before I could stop him. He didn’t listen.” The old sergeant put a hand over his face. “I told him to get back in the car. He didn’t listen.”

  “Bob,” Webb said, “you know who the shooter was?”

  He nodded. “I got a great look at his face. But it happened so goddamn fast. Bastard had his gun out the second Tim yelled ‘NYPD!’ I was still getting out my side of the car. The son of a bitch put three through the window there. Tim didn’t even get a shot off, caught two right in the throat.”

  “Holy shit,” Vic said softly. He was looking at the car door, tracing bullet trajectories with his fingertip. “That’s some damn good shooting.”