The Impoverished: Boxed Set Read online

  Carson hopped into his truck and found his way back to the West Side Highway. Before he reached the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, he pulled over two more times to call Malone. The result was the same each time - no answer. Damn.

  Chapter 27

  Malone left his house just before dawn to follow up on a report that came in late last night. A surveillance team observed two Ford Econoline cargo vans entering a garage in Jamaica, Queens. The garage was suspicious because the man who leased the garage resides in the same apartment building where the World Trade Center bomb-maker had lived.

  Malone intended to be in the office when the surveillance team returned so he can hear the report first hand. Sometimes the smallest detail, was omitted or slightly altered by each telling of a story. Malone needed to get every detail right. He was sure that the vans that entered the garage last night were being transformed into van-bombs.

  On his way to the Queensboro Bridge, he decided to check out the garage with his own eyes. He turned the sedan around and jumped onto the Long Island Expressway.

  Ten minutes later, he was in Jamaica. He made a left turn onto 90th Avenue and drove past the garage. The entrance was too low to accommodate any vehicles larger than a suburban or a van. Trucks were too high to fit through the driveway. The two vans that were brought in last night were probably the only vehicles inside.

  The garage is convenient to all four of the targeted locations: the United Nations Building, the Federal Building, the Lincoln Tunnel and the Holland Tunnel. Malone shook his head. Only two vans were modified at this garage. It felt right.

  Two van-bombs would be dispatched from the garage and driven into Manhattan. One would travel over the Queensboro Bridge into the United Nations parking garage and the other would travel over the Williamsburg Bridge into the Federal Building’s garage, No tolls to pass, less chance for the vans to be stopped and recognized for what they were - explosive laden mobile bombs.

  The vans destined for the tunnels under the Hudson River would not be dispatched from Jamaica. They would be deployed from the New Jersey side. The plot had a better chance of success if the vans rolled from different locations.

  If the United Nations and Federal Building bombs exploded before the tunnel bombs, the NYPD would put the city in immediate lock down mode. The Hudson River and East River crossings, all the tunnels and bridges, would be closed within minutes. The vans heading for the tunnels would be blocked from reaching their targets.

  The bastards that planned this were not brain surgeons, but they were meticulous. Bomb making materials and a few cargo vans were all the ingredients necessary for disaster. To keep things simple, the plot had to be broken down into two separate plans. But, all the bombs were planned to explode within minutes of one another. Malone was sure of it.

  Since Carson had no idea that buildings in New York were targets, the attacks were clearly planned separately. Carson and Gilbert trained in Deposit to prepare for the attack on the tunnels only, and not the buildings.

  Carson and Gilbert were chosen to execute the Hudson River tunnel explosions because they worked for the Port of Authority and could pass the toll booths without suspicion. They will be dressed in their Port Authority Uniforms and will not be suspected by their co-workers or the commuting public.

  Whoa. Carson and Gilbert were placed in the Port of Authority of New York and New Jersey three years before they were needed to execute these bombings. Malone shuddered. How many other terrorists were in position, waiting to act for future attacks?

  What mattered right now was finding the other van-bombs, the ones destined for the tunnels. Focus man, focus!

  Malone took a few slow deep breaths, forcing his racing mind to relax so he could plan his day. First, he will speak with last night’s surveillance team. Then, he will work on locating the other vans. He will start the search in Weehawken and Jersey City, the most likely places, because of their close proximity to the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels. The attacks were scheduled to occur on the fourth of July and it was already the twenty-third of June. Every minute counted. He must somehow expedite the search.

  Once he opened up the investigation to the NYPD’s Intelligence Division, he could tap into their analysts, as well as the FBI’s analysts. They could narrow down the list of possible garages in a few days. He will then have a manageable list of places to investigate.

  Malone was even more eager to get to work than when he left his house this morning. The sooner the hunt for the garage housing the Hudson River tunnel van-bombs started, the better. They could stop the van-bombs for the buildings before they even left the garage, but they will not be able to stop the tunnel van-bombs in time if they did not know where they were garaged.

  Driving on auto-pilot, he was surprised when he reached Broadway. After circling the Federal Building twice he gave up on finding a nearby parking spot. He drove a few blocks south and parked alongside City Hall Park.

  Just as he tossed his police placard on the dashboard he felt a sharp tightening in his chest. He grabbed the handle on the door, but passed out before he could push the door open.

  Malone did not hear his cell phone ring over and over again.

  Chapter 28

  Officers Russo and Rosen stood inside the living room of a beautifully renovated brownstone on Halsey Street watching Marcia Longs pace and wring her hands. It was eleven-fifteen on Wednesday evening and her husband, Wayne, had not returned home from work. He should have been home no later than seven PM and he had not even called.

  Matt asked her routine questions. “Where does your husband work? Does he drive to work or take the train? Has he come home late before? Did you call his office, friends, relatives, favorite hangouts? Does he have any medical or psychological conditions? Is he on any medication?”

  After Mrs. Longs gave all the expected answers, Matt asked the hard questions. “Does Mr. Longs abuse alcohol or recreational drugs? Have you fought recently?”

  Mrs. Longs responded with an indignant no to both questions.

  Matt followed up with the hardest question of all. “May we look around the house?”

  Matt read the exasperated look on Marcia Longs face and quickly added, “We need to check the entire house before we can expand our search. It’s procedure. As soon as we look here, Officer Russo and I will drive the route from your home to the train station.”

  Matt and Mel searched the house from the basement to the attic, the roof, the front and year yards and the rental apartment on the second floor while Mrs. Longs looked for recent photos of her husband.

  Matt took the photos from Mrs. Longs, placed a hand on her shoulder. “We will find your husband.”

  Carmella gave Mrs. Longs a quick comforting smile, turned the brass knob on the inner hallway door and was nearly knocked down by a tall disheveled man barreling through the front door.

  “What is wrong? Why is there a cop car in front of my house? Is anyone hurt?” His eyes darted around the room.

  Carmella saw Wayne Longs’ expression change from panic to relief when his gaze settled on his wife.

  Marcia Longs reached up, hugged her husband tightly and then punched him in the chest. “Where were you? Why didn’t you call?”

  Carmella and Matt gave the couple a minute and then Carmella asked, “Is everything okay here?”

  Both the Longs nodded. Carmella and Matt slipped out the front door.

  Carmella opened the passenger door of the blue and white police car and Matt walked around to the driver’s side. Matt smiled at Carmella over the roof of the car. “Another mysterious case solved by the great team of Sherlock Holmes and Watson.”

  “Get in the car, Watson. We are going end of tour.” Carmella smiled as she sat.

  Matt frowned, “I’m no Watson.”

  Carmella patted Matt on the shoulder and said in a mocking tone, “OK. If you insist on being Sherlock, then I’ll be Colombo.”

  “Hey, Colombo works alone. If you are Colombo, than who am I?” Matt pulled
the car into the back parking lot of the station house.

  “Now you are catching on,” teased Carmella.

  Carmella grabbed her flashlight from between the seats, her nightstick from the floorboard, her memo book and radio from the dashboard, and reached for her uniform cap all the way on the back seat. She darted into the station house.

  After turning in the radios, she stood on line to sign the return roll call while Matt rummaged through the telephone message box.

  “Mel, this one is for you.” He handed her a folded piece of white paper.

  “Thanks.” She unfolded the paper and read the note.

  Meet me at Shawnee’s Place right away.

  I am in a spot.

  C. Eastward

  Carmella re-read the note, but it still did not make sense. She showed it to Matt. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Hmmm. Oh well, Good night, Matt.” Carmella crumpled up the note and tossed it into the garbage pail.

  Chapter 29

  It was Wednesday, June twenty-third and it would be for another twenty minutes. Carson dreaded the advent of Midnight. It would begin the worst day of his life.

  In the morning, at nine-fifteen, he was supposed to drive a van loaded with explosives into the Lincoln Tunnel and Gilbert would drive another explosive laden van into the Holland Tunnel. Carson’s breathing quickened and his heartbeat raced. He leaned on the jukebox until his head stopped spinning.

  He could not reach Malone, his only contact with the NYPD. Well, there was Russo. She and Malone were the only people on the police department who knew he was deep undercover. Malone did not answer his phone, and he did not know if Russo got the message to meet him at Shawnee’s Place.

  If Russo doesn’t show he’ll be forced to confide in any cop. But, how can he convince him he was telling the truth? He could not prove that he was a cop. He has no badge. No identification card. No gun. There are no personnel files on him. His paychecks are deposited in a protected account, so there are no financial records either. He had to reach Malone or Russo, no one else would believe him.

  The bar was not jammed and the air conditioner was cranking away, but Carson felt sticky with sweat. He stood near the juke box, where he had a clear view of the front door. Each time it opened, he was sure Russo would come in. Each time, he was disappointed.

  He wore a crisp short sleeved t-shirt, freshly washed jeans and a baseball cap and was holding a bottle of Bud. He blended into the crowd and obscured his identity without looking suspicious. He could pull it off if he just stopped sweating.

  Carson put the Budweiser to his lips and swallowed the last bit of beer before heading into the men’s room to splash cold water on his face. On the way out of the bathroom, he passed a pay phone. He dialed Malone again. No answer. He swallowed. He called the Seventy Ninth Precinct. “May I speak with Officer Russo? It is important.”

  While explaining to the cop that answered the phone that he needed to speak with Russo personally, a new voice got on the line. “I am Officer Rosen, Officer Russo’s partner. Can I take a message for her?”

  “Yes, please do” Carson said. “Ask her to meet me at Shawnee’s Place now. It is urgent.”

  “Who are you?” Rosen asked.

  “I cannot tell you that, not over the phone. Tell her that it’s Clint Eastward. She knows who I am.”

  After hearing that ridiculous remark, Rosen was about to hang up the phone. But when the voice on the other end said, “I will wait all night,” Rosen hesitated. That phrase rang a bell and the voice began to sound familiar. I will wait all night. When had he heard that before?

  He remembered a strange telephone call he took for Russo, back when they were rookies. A light bulb went on in his head. “Is this Richard Carson?”

  The voice moaned. “Damn! I told you no freaking names.”

  Rosen knew he was right.

  Chapter 30

  Carmella trotted up the stairs, a large knapsack slung over her shoulder and five pink plastic hangers in her hand. She was starting her three day swing. She was off Thursday, Friday and Saturday. A weekend.

  She and her friends rented a house on the Jersey Shore every summer. Her friends worked in the city, in the financial district, and kept normal hours, with weekends off. It was rare for Carmella to have even part of a weekend off, so she was in an especially good mood tonight.

  She pulled open the stairwell door and strolled through the lobby. On her way out the front door of the station house, she spotted Matt in the vestibule already changed into jeans and a tee shirt. He must be stopping off at the bar tonight.

  “Good night, Matt. Have a good swing!” She patted his shoulder as she passed him. “Straight home. No stopping.” She laughed.

  “Mel, wait up.” He ran to catch her before she reached her car.

  She turned. All smiles. “Did you change your mind? Are you coming to the beach house? The girls will be thrilled!”

  He turned crimson. “No, no. That’s not it.” He shuffled his feet. “Remember that weird message you got earlier. It was from Richard Carson. He called again while you were changing. He is waiting for you at Shawnee’s Place.”

  Carmella stopped dead in her tracks. “What!” The telephone conversation that she had with Carson over four years ago came flooding back. “Shit, Matt! If Carson is reaching out to me then something is very wrong.”

  “Yeah. I figured as much.”

  “Do me a favor, please. Telephone JTTF, contact Detective Tom Malone. He is Carson’s handler. Ask him to meet us at Shawnee’s Place.”

  Matt turned to run back inside the precinct. Carmella called out to him. “Will you meet me there when you are done with the call?”

  “Try and keep me away,” he said.

  Carmella swallowed. She did not know what kind of trouble Carson was in, but she was glad Matt would be there to back her up.

  Six minutes later, she pulled open the front door to Shawnee’s Place. It was packed. The bars on Flatbush Ave picked up after midnight, when the cops, paramedics, transit workers and nurses ended their shifts. After a few minutes, she spotted Carson in the back of the bar, near the jukebox. She recognized him right away, even though he was hiding under a Yankees baseball cap. He looked the same as he did four years ago.

  She inched her way through the crowd. When she reached the jukebox, Carson was gone. She scanned the crowd, section by section, but did not see him anywhere. Just as she began to panic, she saw him squeezing through the crowd with two bottles of beer.

  “There is nothing like a cold beer,” he said in a shaky voice. He handed her a fresh Coors Light. “Let’s have a drink before we talk. I need to take a break from thinking about the tower of shit I’m in, or I might scream. I’m really losing it.”

  Carmella clinked her bottle against his. His hand was trembling. She inhaled and feigned a smile. “Sure, just so you know, my partner is on his way here. You can trust him.” She added in a conspirators tone, “There is something you should know about him, though.” She leaned close, tapped the bill of Carson’s baseball cap and whispered in his ear, “He is a Yankee fan, too!”

  Carson grinned. Carmella was glad to lighten his mood, if just for a moment.

  They drank and argued about the rivalry between Met and Yankee fans. Carmella insisted the rivalry was one sided. “Met fans are loyal New Yorkers. We root for the Yankees when the Mets don’t make the playoffs”.

  “Which is often the case.” Carson wasted no time pointing out.

  Ignoring him, Carmella said, “Yankee fans root against the Mets- always. That, my friend, is un-American.”

  A familiar voice said, “Mel, are you still on that? Get over it, will ya. Yankee fans are too smart to back a losing team. It has nothing to do with loyalty. You think like a girl.”

  Matt held out his hand out. “You must be Clint Eastward. I’m Matt Rosen, Mel’s partner.”

  Carson shook Mat’s hand. “Richard Carson.” Carson’s five minute reprieve was o
ver. He was no longer in a joking mood. He finished his beer and took a deep breath.

  It was time to hear him out.

  Carmella squeezed her eyebrows. “Carson, what is going on?”

  Carson slumped his shoulders. “I am in deep shit. I can’t get out of this alone. I need help. The Impoverished wants me to plant a bomb tomorrow morning-”

  “Holy shit! A bomb. Tomorrow!” Matt exclaimed.

  Carson glared at him. “Shh!”

  Matt put his hand over his mouth. “Sorry.” He looked around. No one seemed to have noticed his outburst.

  “And if that’s not bad enough, I cannot reach Malone. He’s my only contact in the NYPD. He always takes my calls.” Carson’s mouth twitched.

  Matt patted Carson’s shoulder. “I just got off the phone with JTTF. Malone is in Cabrini Medical Center, in the intensive care unit. He will not be meeting us here tonight.”

  Carson gasped. He tucked his chin into his chest and closed his eyes. Malone did not abandon him after all. Deep down, he expected Malone to come to his rescue. But now, that would never happen. He was on his own. He’s knees sank. Matt and Carmella grabbed him by the waist. They held him until he brushed their arms away.

  When Carmella and Matt casually positioned Carson against the wall, and formed a human shield around him, Carson realized he was not alone. He let out a great sigh and began telling his story. He didn’t stop to catch his breath until he told them everything.

  After a minute of silence, Carson caught his breath and downed his beer.

  Matt squinted his eyes. “Let me get this straight. JTTF knows about the plot to detonate van bombs in the tunnels, but they think they have a week to take down the terrorists, right?”

  “That’s right.” Carson cleared his throat. “You have to tell them that it is going down in the morning.”