The Getaway

NINETEEN

Back across the city inside the Marriott Marquis Hotel, Archer stepped off the elevator for the 21 floor and stood still for a moment, letting the doors close behind him. Once he’d explained where the memory card was, he and Sanderson had discussed what to do next. Sanderson said he was going to head to Federal Plaza immediately and get back-up, both to find Siletti and O’Hara and to set up an ambush for the Flushing truck heist Farrell and his team were planning for tonight. Archer said he’d handle getting the memory card from the camera. They had risen, shaking hands and parting ways, Sanderson headed downstairs to the taxi rank, Archer back to the hotel room.

Walking down the corridor to the room, he slid the key-card into the slot and pushing down the handle, walked into the room. Shutting the door behind him, he saw that Katic and the girl were awake, both enjoying a room-service breakfast. They were perched side by side on the edge of the bed, a table pulled up in front of them with some toast, spreads and cereals on the counter. They looked up and smiled as he entered, closing the door behind him. He also saw Katic withdraw her left hand from her handbag sitting beside her on the bed, no doubt her 9mm Sig inside, on her guard. He smiled.

‘Morning, ladies,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ Jessie said, through a mouthful of toast.

Archer looked at Katic, who got the message that he wanted to talk. She rose and moved outside past the screen door to the balcony, Archer joining her and pulling it shut. The sun was shining across the city and there was the usual chorus of car horns and shouts from the streets twenty one floors below.

‘What did he say?’ Katic asked, biting off a chunk of toast.

‘He’s gone to call for back up. An entire Division from D.C will be here before sundown.’

‘That’s perfect.’

‘Also, the proof my father said he had. Apparently it’s photographic.’

‘Really? That’s great. Who were the shots of?’

‘He didn’t want to reveal any names over the phone. He was getting ready to drive down straight away and deliver it all himself. Then he got killed.’

‘Siletti and O’Hara.’

Archer nodded and pictured the pair. Siletti, lanky, that pencil-thin moustache, his slicked back hair. His narrow face, Gerrard’s stolen suit too big for him. His broken nose. O’Hara, all red hair and Irish fury, standing on Katic’s fire escape, shotgun in hand.

‘Sanderson said my father was using a digital camera, not the traditional ones, according to the details of his assignment on the report,’ he said. ‘The team investigating his death haven’t been able to recover it.’

‘So we need to find the camera. Or just the memory card.’

‘I know where it is.’

Her eyes widened. ‘What? Where?’

‘Inside the drawer of the nightstand at his apartment. I saw it in there the day I arrived.’

She cursed.

‘Shit. You can’t just walk over there and knock on the front door, Archer. Farrell and Siletti will both have that place staked out, guaranteed. The NYPD will probably be around too. You won’t get within thirty yards of the place.’

‘I know. But I need that card. We get that, we have actual physical proof. They won’t be able to twist themselves out.’

‘Why didn’t you ask Sanderson for help?’

‘I can’t hang around and wait on this one. And I don’t want to draw him into the danger. This is my mess, not his. He doesn’t deserve to be shot at.’

‘OK. Then I’ll come with you,’ she said, finishing her toast.

He shook his head. ‘You need to stay here with Jessie.’

She went to argue, but the words didn’t come. He was right.

‘There are people out there looking for both of us, right now,’ he added. ‘One of us needs to stay with her at all times.’

‘But how are you going to get the card?’ she asked.

He shrugged.

‘I’ll figure something out.’

He rose and opened the sliding doors, heading for the door.

‘Are you leaving?’ Jessie asked, jam and toast crumbs around her mouth, cartoons blaring out of the T.V in front of her.

‘Afraid so,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be back soon.’

He took a last look at Katic, who was standing just inside the sliding doors, looking worried. The morning sunlight was beaming down from the sky behind her, and it lit up her hair, a deep almond and crimson brown.

She looked breathtaking.

He nodded to her. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

And he left.



The taxi rank for the hotel ran undercover from the street, so Archer joined the line and climbed into one when he hit the front of the queue. There was no sign of Sanderson, so he must have jumped in one already and was on his way downtown to Federal Plaza. There were a couple of hotel security guards standing nearby, but no cops, and he hadn’t seen his face on the news report in the bar so he figured he’d be OK.

After pulling open the door to the taxi, he took a seat inside and shut the door. The driver turned.

‘Where to?’

‘Astoria. 30 Avenue,’ Archer said.

The man nodded, and the car pulled round the corner and out into the daylight and Times Square. They started down the street, and Archer saw the NYPD Times Square base of operations approaching on their left, a group of officers stood there on the kerb. He looked the other way inside the cab, passing them, and once the taxi had moved on, he forgot about them and started wracking his brains, wondering how the hell he could get into his father’s apartment without anyone knowing about it.

There were three possible entrance points. From the right on 38, from the left on 38 or through the back window, accessible by walking through a shop on Steinway Street. None of the options were appealing. There would be eyes on the front door, guaranteed, and he would make too much noise trying to get through the back window.

And he was sure that someone would be inside. Probably Regan. Maybe even Farrell, if he was still as angry as the night before, demanding retribution for ditching them on the kerb. And not only would he have to get inside, but he’d also have to get out of the area before they got to him. Ideally, he needed to get in and out without them ever knowing he was there.

But how?

He thought for a moment, the car moving across the city, closer and closer to the apartment.

Suddenly, he had an idea.

‘Change of plan,’ he told the driver. ‘Take me up to the Upper East Side. 92and 1.’

‘You got it,’ the driver said. He turned left on 3 Avenue and the car sped uptown through the Sunday morning sunlight towards the Upper East Side.

*

Regan had just sparked his fifth cigarette when he heard the front door downstairs open. His eyes widened. Stubbing out the cig in a mug beside him, he sat up in his chair and took the Ithaca in his hands, aiming right for the door-space. He heard the door shut and feet coming up the stairs and his pulse quickened. He tightened his finger on the trigger, taking out most of the slack weight, preparing himself. He’d changed his mind about taking his time with the guy. The moment he opened the door and stepped inside, he would fire, aiming for the legs.

But suddenly, someone knocked on the door with the bottom of their fist, hard.

BamBamBam.

A shout followed.

‘Police! Open up!’

Oh shit.

Regan thought for a split-second, then jumped up, rushing to the fridge. He pulled open the door and pushed the sawn-off shotgun inside, resting it on the door shelf carefully. He pushed the door shut quietly, checking the rest of the room for anything else that could give him away. He suddenly realised he had a small bag of coke in his pocket. He pulled it out and tucked it into his sock, smoothing down his jeans over the top.

‘Police! Open up!’ the voice called again.

‘OK, hang on,’ he said, double-checking everything. Then he moved to the door and twisting the lock, opened it.

Outside, two cops were standing there, a man and a woman, both late twenties, both stern-faced. He gave them his best smile, but they didn’t smile back.

‘Are you the homeowner, sir?’ the man asked.

Regan shook his head. ‘No, officer. I’m house-sitting for a friend.’

‘We just got a call of a domestic disturbance at this location.’

Regan frowned, genuinely surprised.

‘That’s impossible. I’m the only one here.’

‘Mind if we take a look around?’ the female cop said. He saw the expression on her face and noted the sharpness in her voice. He guessed any domestic disturbance call rubbed her the wrong way, like it would for any bitch cop.

‘Sure,’ Regan said, letting them inside.

He moved back, watching as they started examining the apartment.

The two of them walked in slowly, looking around the place.

‘Who’s your friend?’ the cop asked.

‘A guy from high school. We’re real tight.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Baltimore. Wedding.’

At the door, Regan saw two other officers had arrived. The pair already inside the apartment turned and nodded to their colleagues, who themselves separated and started examining the other rooms in the apartment. One of them walked across the floor and into the kitchen. Regan licked his lips as he watched the guy examining the outside of the fridge, and silently prayed he wouldn’t reach for the handle.

‘When’s he going to be back?’ the female cop asked, across the room. ‘Your friend.’

‘This afternoon I think. Can I get you guys some coffee? Or tea?’

They ignored him, and continued to look around, walking slowly, with the complete confidence and authority that their badge allowed.

Eventually, the female cop turned to her partner. ‘There’s no one here,’ she said, and he nodded back in agreement. She turned to Regan. ‘OK. It was probably a fake call. Happens time to time. Probably some kids or neighbours wanting to stir up trouble.’

The other two cops had heard this and were already moving to the door. The female cop walked up to Regan, looking him in eye.

‘Sorry to have bothered you, sir,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Not at all. Have a good day, officers.’

The last two cops moved to the door and left, all of them headed down the stairs and out of the building. Regan pushed the door shut, waited still for a moment, then breathed a sigh of relief and moved back to the fridge. He pulled open the top compartment, and slid out the shotgun quietly. The metal barrel was already cold. He moved quietly back to his seat by the door and returned, resting the shotgun on the second chair, and grinned.

The English a*shole had probably made the call, figuring the cops would find whoever was inside and clear them out. It hadn’t worked. Putting the shotgun to the ground, he grabbed a C.D case from the table to his right and walked over to the kitchen, grabbing a thin knife from the drawer. He walked back to the chair, sat back down and pulled the bag of coke from his sock. He’d hit a couple lines to freshen him up. As he poured some of the white powder out of the bag onto the CD case, he glanced back at the door, the shotgun resting on the chair.

Sooner or later, he was going to be here.

And he would be right here waiting for him.



Downstairs on the street, the male and female officers moved to their car, nodding to their two colleagues who had heard the call over the radio and had arrived on foot. One of them headed right, back to his beat on 30 Avenue, whilst the other officer headed to the left towards 31st Avenue. The male cop inside the squad car fired the engine and pulled off the kerb, moving away from the apartment and headed left down the street. He tapped the horn as they passed the officer, and he raised a hand in a wave as they headed off down the street and turned right, moving out of sight.

The officer arrived at the corner of 38 Street, and crossed over to the other side. He moved through the smoke of the food truck and headed down Steinway, walking fast. He checked behind him to make sure he hadn’t been followed, then lifted and opened his hand.

A memory card was there.

Under the police hat of the cop uniform he’d worn at the Garden heist, Archer looked at it and smiled.

It worked.



The next step was finding a drug-store, and that wasn’t too hard. There was a big Duane Reade alongside the entrance to the subway on Steinway Street, just a minute’s walk away.

Taking another look behind him, Archer headed fast down the street. It was a Sunday and Steinway was relatively quiet, but he realised that those he passed were nodding and giving him a wide berth due to his uniform. It made him smile, considering he was probably the most wanted man in the city right now. He walked swiftly down the street, and saw the Duane Reade up ahead, the other side of the street.

Minding the traffic, he crossed over, approaching the wide doorway and heading inside.

The air-conditioning system inside the store was blistering cold, and it hit him like he’d opened a freezer as the sliding doors opened. Clearly the manager preferred to stay cool over keeping his electricity bill down. Inside, he saw the place was quiet, much like the street outside, with just the occasional person wandering the aisles and browsing the shelves. The only employee he could see was a bored teenage girl behind the counter, reading a magazine and mechanically chewing on gum. She saw him enter but her eyes moved straight back to whatever article she was engrossed in.

‘Photography?’ he asked her.

She pointed a manicured nail straight ahead, not bothering to look up from the magazine.

‘Far side. By the wall.’

Archer nodded and moved down the aisle. He found the electronic machine he was after mounted on the wall. Checking he hadn’t been followed, he took off the policeman’s hat and tucked it under his arm and slid the memory stick into the slot. It loaded, and he had to press a few buttons, but suddenly the first shot appeared on the screen, asking him if he wanted to edit it before printing.

He pressed ignore and studied the photograph closely instead.

It was a surveillance shot, taken late at night. Three men and a woman, in a parking lot. One of the men was Farrell. That much was immediately clear. He was standing face-on to the camera. Ortiz was standing beside him, dressed in a white vest and black sweatpants, her arms crossed, the light from the lamp-post showing the pronounced curves of the muscles in her arms and the sharp edge of her jaw-line.

They were facing two men in what looked like a meeting. The other two had their backs turned. It was dark, so making out exact distinguishing characteristics was a challenge, but he saw a tall, gangly shape on one of them and fiery red hair in the other.

Siletti and O’Hara. Unmistakeable.

He clicked on. Siletti and O’Hara still had their backs turned. It was evidence, but Archer wanted more. A good lawyer could probably defend this in court, finding a way to get them out of it, but then again any half-decent professional in the D.C office who was familiar with photography could enhance these in seconds.

Archer clicked on. The shots continued, and he tried to decipher what had happened. Farrell didn’t look happy, the street-light above showing him frowning, his mouth open, his face angry. Farrell had mentioned that he’d severed ties with his rat in the Task Force a few weeks ago. These photos were taken in the last two weeks, when relations were gone, hence the anger on Farrell’s face. Siletti and O’Hara were probably meeting to try and re-establish their working relationship. He clicked on.

Soon enough, the meeting seemed to end and Siletti and O’Hara started to turn in the photographs. He watched in staccato as Farrell and Ortiz turned and walked away, disappearing into the night. Jim Archer hadn’t bothered to follow them with the camera. He already had them on the memory card.

Instead, the photographs showed the other two men climb into a dark Mercedes. As they moved off, James Archer had caught the perfect shot. The interior light inside the car hadn’t quite gone off yet and it lit up their faces like a beacon.

Siletti and O’Hara.

Three cherries.

The lights flashing, quarters pouring out of the bottom of the machine.

Jackpot.

He reached in his pocket, grabbing his cell phone, and pushed Katic’s number. It connected and he lifted it to his ear, looking at the damning shot.

‘Katic, it’s Archer. I’ve got great news.’

But he suddenly paused.

Something didn’t feel right.

Something was wrong.

‘Katic?’

‘Katic isn’t here right now,’ a man’s voice said, the voice nasal and creepy.

Archer’s blood turned as cold as the air blasted from the air-conditioning system above.

He recognised the voice.

‘Listen up,’ Siletti said, his voice distorted from his broken nose. ‘Or the bitch, kid and Sanderson die.’