Paranoia

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

•••

CHAPTER 1

RALPH STEIN TRIED to swallow. His throat was too dry. He’d been in tight spots before, but nothing like this. He needed to buy time. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with it, but the longer he kept this guy’s attention, the greater the chance that he might get out of this. Or so he hoped.

Ralph cast a reassuring look over at Gary Halverson. But Gary was past the point of reassurance. Sweat poured down his face, making his thin hair stick to his forehead. The gray stubble on his chin glistened with perspiration.

“This isn’t necessary,” Ralph said to the guy.

“I agree,” the tall man with close‑cropped brown hair mumbled. The guy looked pretty calm to Ralph. A real pro.

Ralph tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but it didn’t work. “I can get some cash. I can give you more money than whoever’s paying you to do this.”

“Not about the money.” The man checked the two propane tanks he’d placed right in front of Gary and Ralph, and the cord he’d used to secure their hands to kitchen chairs. He showed no emotion and no real interest in chatting with Ralph.

Ralph figured both the cord and the timer were made of some kind of non‑synthetic material that would burn away and leave no evidence. He looked around the kitchen. The walls were decorated with photographs and cartoons of sharks. Ralph’s favorite was a cartoon of a shark in an NYPD uniform. A street artist had drawn it for him when he was a patrol officer in Times Square. His eyes fell on the crayon portrait that his sister’s little grand‑ daughter had drawn for him. She was an absolute doll. Ralph caught the sob before it came out.

“How’d you know about us? Who sent you?” Ralph figured there were plenty of people who could’ve sent the guy, but why would anyone bother to track him down in Florida now? “C’mon, I can tell by that weird‑looking timer you’re fixing to those propane tanks that you’re no ordinary street hood. You have to know Gary and I were both cops. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

The man, who looked to be in his late thirties, stopped his work and sighed. He turned and said in a quiet voice, “It does mean something. Thank you for your service. Now please stop talking. This is a done deal. You’re kinda bumming me out.”

Ralph perked up. “You’re from Brooklyn, right? I never miss an accent. Especially from back home.”

The man continued working, ignoring Ralph.

Ralph kept it up. “Were you in the military? In World War II, Brooklyn led the country in recruits. Not so much these days. New York has fallen off as a supplier of soldiers.” He looked at the man, hoping to spark some conversation. He got nothing.

The man finished adjusting a small green‑and‑brown device attached to one of the propane tanks. Then he looked up at Ralph and put his finger to his lips, prompting him to keep quiet.

Ralph tried to think things through. The man was probably thirty years younger than him. He was in shape and carried a Beretta 9mm. When he’d knocked on the door of Ralph’s little two‑bedroom rental house in Hollywood Beach, Ralph had figured him to be a tourist looking to find a bridge back over to town, or maybe the easiest way to get down to Miami. That was his first mistake. He’d lost his edge in his old age.

Gary said, “I already sent the email, Ralph. Considering what the doctors said, I’m no worse off.”

One of the first things the man had done after he’d pulled the gun was to make Gary write a good‑bye email to his niece. Now Ralph watched as the man pulled the keyboard away from the computer on the kitchen counter and tossed it out the front door.

Ralph mumbled, “What the hell?”

Gary snorted. “It’s the difference in assignments. You did most of your time in narcotics, Ralph. I did a stint in homicide. He’s got my fingerprints on the keyboard. They’ll ID me from that. He tossed it outside like it was blown there by the blast. It’s pretty inventive, if I do say so myself.”

The man looked up and nodded at Gary. Just a little sign of respect. He pressed a plunger on the little gadget he’d attached to the propane tank on the right. Then he turned the knob on each tank until they could all hear the hiss of the escaping propane.

Then the man was gone. Silently and gracefully ducked out the open door and disappeared.

Ralph prayed the asshole didn’t know his sister, Rachel, lived right down the street. She didn’t need to be involved in this foolishness. When he thought about it for a moment, he realized he hadn’t needed to be involved in it either.

•••

CHAPTER 2

RACHEL STEIN CONNORS liked to stroll down the boardwalk on Hollywood Beach in the afternoons with her two grandchildren to visit her big brother, who’d moved into a little house nearby about a year ago. Ralph had spent eight years telling her he was going to retire from the NYPD and move to Florida. Now that he’d finally done it, she made sure to see him every day. Even though he was twelve years older than her, he was a great big brother. He deserved the best retirement in the world.

As Rachel walked, she held the hands of her five‑year‑old grandson and three‑and‑a‑half‑year‑old granddaughter. They were both excited to visit Uncle Ralph’s house, with all the cool drawings and photos of sharks he had up on his wall.

Suddenly, the little girl froze and scooted behind her grandmother’s sundress. Rachel looked up and saw a golden retriever being walked by a young woman. “It’s okay, sweetheart, he’s on a leash,” she said in a soft voice. The little girl had recently conflated things overheard from a news report about a dog who’d mauled a girl in the Broward County town of Miramar, and she’d decided all dogs were dangerous.

The woman paused, realizing that the little girl was scared, and pulled her dog close. She encouraged the children to pet him, reassuring them that her dog was friendly. Rachel went with it, hoping it might be a way to cure her granddaughter’s phobia, and was pleasantly surprised when both kids started to pat the dog gently. As the woman leaned down, Rachel spotted her brother’s house across state road A1A, over the woman’s shoulder. She saw the flash a moment before she felt the explosion.

She heard it too, but the visceral shock to her system was from the blast wave. The entire house seemed to burst at once.

Rachel fell to the sidewalk, still staring at her brother’s home, now engulfed in flames. As soon as she gathered her senses, she reached out and grabbed both of her grandchildren. She turned them away from the scene just as she started to feel heat from the quickly spreading fire.

People on the beach were shouting. A blue Mazda, going south on A1A, swerved into an unoccupied bus bench. Everyone seemed to have their phones out, either taking photos or calling 911.

Rachel flinched as more noises came from inside the house.

Nothing at all like the initial blast, but loud pops and crackles.

Two thoughts hit her at the same time. Her brother was dead. And if this woman hadn’t stopped to let the kids pet her dog, they all would be dead too.

Then she started to cry.

•••

CHAPTER 3

I WASN’T USED to wearing a tie. It was one of those things I didn’t have to worry about in my day‑to‑day life. Unfortunately, I was about to attend a funeral. A cop’s funeral. A retired cop who’d died too soon. I guess that’s how we feel about anyone we like and respect who passes. Lou Sanvos had spent most of his career as a detective in narcotics. Like a lot of people, I lost touch with Lou after he retired about ten years ago.

The Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church on West 91st looked like something out of a Gothic literary story. Tucked in the middle of Manhattan, the stone walls and tower seemed somewhat out of place. And although I’d passed it about a million times in my life, this was the first time I’d ever been inside. It somehow seemed more solemn than Holy Name, the Catholic church my family attended.

There were about 150 people here, a decent crowd for a guy who’d retired almost a decade ago. I’d brought my new twenty‑four‑year‑old partner, Rob Trilling, with me. He was having a hard time making contacts within the department, mainly because he was so quiet, and also because he was technically still on temporary assignment to Manhattan North Homicide. He couldn’t work a case solo yet. Currently, he was helping Detective Terri Hernandez with an investigation involving a gang responsible for at least two recent homicides. I figured there’d be a few people at this funeral still on the job who I could introduce him to. Besides, I liked having Trilling around. He was entertaining, quirky and unpredictable.

As we slipped into a pew near the rear of the church, I turned to Trilling and said, “You said you were a little weird, and that you like funerals. What do you think of this one so far?”

The young man almost smiled. I’d realized by now that Trilling wasn’t as gloomy and brooding as he often seemed. “I don’t necessarily like funerals, Bennett,” Trilling said. “I like the traditions and rituals. Back in Montana, I was in school with some kids from the Blackfeet Nation. When one of their own died, they had four days of mourning. And also cut their hair short to show that they were grieving. That kind of stuff impresses you as a kid.”

“After a funeral like this, we usually hold a wake at a bar and tell stories about the departed. That’s the NYPD tradition.”

Trilling said, “My grandfather always said that going to a funeral is the one thing that you can never expect any repayment for. The deceased can’t return the favor and come to your funeral. It’s sort of an act of good faith and respect. I always thought that was a good way to look at funerals.”

We watched silently as an honor guard marched down the center aisle of the church.

Trilling leaned in close and said, “I know Sanvos died in a car accident. What happened?”

I kept my voice low as a decidedly non‑Catholic priest started to speak at the pulpit. I said, “Lou retired to White Plains to be near his kids. I heard he lost control of his car somehow and drove right through the front window of a store. The car caught fire. Ironically, the store he crashed into was a fire equipment and safety store.”

“It looks like he was popular. I’ve been to funerals with only three or four people in attendance.” Trilling looked around at the turnout.

“Aside from a long career in the NYPD, Lou did a lot for youth groups, especially in the Bronx. He really felt like the key to solving the gun crisis, as well as crime in general, was to pro‑ vide kids with a safe place to grow up with decent role models. He focused on the worst neighborhoods that got the fewest resources.”

Trilling mumbled, “I can see why you two were friends.”

That might’ve been the nicest thing my young partner had ever said to me.

•••

CHAPTER 4

AFTER THE SHORT, official reception at the parish house of the church, I dragged Trilling to the Irish Rose, one of Lou’s favorite pubs. As soon as we stepped through the old wooden doorway, it was like entering another universe. The place was absolutely packed. Most of the people who’d attended the funeral were there, plus a bunch of cops just getting off shift, some still in uniform. There was a certain subdued rowdiness that Lou would’ve appreciated. The Saturday afternoon atmosphere mag‑ nified the emotions.

I nodded to half a dozen people as we walked through the crowded pub. Somehow we found a couple of stools at the far end of the bar. Without even asking, a stout bartender with a fancy curled mustache set down two Guinnesses in front of us.

A short, balding Black man with thick glasses crawled up onto a table and started banging a metal tray with a serving spoon. I turned toward Trilling and said, “That’s Dave Sharp. One of the truly great guys in the NYPD.”

Sharp waited for everyone’s attention. “I’ll let you get back to drinking soon enough. I just wanted to remind everyone why we’re here. Lou Sanvos will never be forgotten in this town. His support for youth centers is unparalleled. Lou’s wife, Margaret, tells me she’s fine financially and that any money people might want to donate should go to Lou’s favorite cause: helping young people.

“I’m going to pass around the bucket, and anyone who feels like it can throw in a few bucks. We’ll split it between the two youth centers in the Bronx Lou worked so hard to build.”

Someone came up and tugged on Dave Sharp’s sleeve. He leaned down, then turned to the crowd and said, “And even though it’s not official, let’s not forget our own Celeste Cantor, who’ll be retiring soon and running for New York City Council. We’re hoping that’s just a stepping stone to bigger and better things.” That comment got a loud round of applause as Inspector Celeste Cantor — an attractive fifty-something woman dressed in a dark‑blue pantsuit and not her usual uniform with more ribbons and medals than a nineteenth‑century Bavarian count — stood up and waved to everyone in the bar.

Trilling said, “Cops can run for political office?”

“You have to retire first. If she’s half as good a City Council member as she is a cop, we’ll all be in better shape soon.”

Cantor smiled when she noticed me at the corner of the bar. She pointed directly at me and started marching in my direction, fending off a few people trying to corner her as she approached.

After she gave me a hug, I introduced her to Rob Trilling. Cantor smiled and said, “We’ve both come a long way from patrol work in the Bronx, haven’t we, Mike?”

I turned to Trilling and said, “Inspector Cantor was part of a narcotics squad when she was a lowly sergeant. They called themselves the Land Sharks, after an old Saturday Night Live skit. It only took a couple of months before every dealer in the city took notice and worried about ‘the Sharks’ coming onto their turf. Even the commissioner referred to them as ‘the Sharks’ during a news conference.”

“And now I’m about to be cast out to sea.”

“If you’re running for City Council, I call that catching a wave.”

Cantor laughed. “As tough and dangerous as police work can be, I think I still prefer it to politics.”

I raised my glass of Guinness and said, “Hear, hear.”

Trilling turned and stared at me, so I quickly said, “Sorry — the Irish pub got in my brain.” I turned back to Cantor. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

A crooked smile, the result of a broken jaw from a protester, spread across her face. “As a matter of fact, I do have something you could help me with.”

I already regretted making the offer.