Page 64 of Crosshairs
Yvette sat across from me at a tiny café off Church Street. She was in training clothes, which consisted of a T-shirt and 5.11 cargo pants, plus an oversized windbreaker, which covered anything that showed she was an officer with the NYPD. She was about thirty years old, with a soft voice and demeanor, which were incongruent with her hard-edged look of a veteran cop: fit, tall, and with her hair cropped close to her head for practical purposes. She literally inspired confidence.
After we chatted for a few minutes, Yvette said, “I can’t imagine why Detective Michael Bennett wants to talk to me.”
I said, “This conversation has to be completely confidential. It’s about Rob Trilling.” I noticed her smile immediately falter. I said, “What’s wrong?”
“You’re in Homicide still, not IA, right?”
“Yep. Trilling is temporarily assigned to my squad.”
“I’m not sure what you want, Detective. Rob is a hard worker.”
“I agree.”
“Smart, compassionate to victims. He has real potential.”
“I sense some hesitation.” I noticed how she looked around the café and leaned slightly closer to me.
Yvette said, “He’s quick to anger. I mean, he goes from zero to sixty in an instant.”
“How so?”
“He won’t get in trouble for this, will he?”
I said, “Believe me, any trouble Trilling gets in will be of his own doing.”
Yvette took a moment to gather her thoughts. Then she said, “Rob hates to see people beat the system. We arrested a guy for dealing meth twice in one day. The perp got cut loose without any bond the first time. You’d have thought the guy killed the president by Rob’s reaction. After we arrested him the second time, Rob walked the perp through booking and then showed up in court on his own time to tell the prosecutor not to release him again.”
I nodded. That sounded like Rob Trilling.
Yvette said, “Another time, at a domestic, I saw how Rob hated bullies. The wife and baby were crying, but there were no outward signs of violence. The wife didn’t want to press any charges. The husband didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Rob led him out of the apartment and downstairs. Supposedly the guytripped and fell the last flight. He never made a complaint, but it still worried me.
“And then there was a concerning incident of a foot chase of a robber who stole a woman’s purse at knifepoint, then shoved the woman into the street, where a taxi nearly ran her over. Rob tackled him hard. Too hard. Broke the guy’s jaw and hand in the fall. It made me nervous.”
I said, “Did you report these incidents to anyone? This is no comment on you. I’m just curious.”
“I didn’t have anything solid. No one complained. And he only seemed to react this way to the worst suspects or the ones not facing any punishment. Rob’s quirky that way.”
I found myself nodding. I wasn’t happy to hear anything she had to say. I was almost distraught. But it helped me make up my mind. For a moment I pictured Trilling in prison. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
CHAPTER 80
TRILLING FOLLOWED PERSHING east on foot. He thought about calling someone or stopping the fugitive right now, but he wanted to see who Pershing talked to. With Pershing’s partner, William Hackford, being held on federal drug and human trafficking charges, there was no telling who Pershing was working with now.
Trilling walked on for a few minutes, assessing his target. Pershing was a big man, over six foot two with broad shoulders. Watching him made Trilling angry, unable to stop thinking about the marks on Marisol’s neck or the glass eye Pershing’s former girlfriend now had to use.
Trilling had a vague memory of his father. It was really the only memory he had of the man. When Trilling was about four, his father slapped his mother. Hard. Then stormed out. He’d seen his father twice since that incident, but the only thing that hadstuck in his mind was the slap. He had no idea where his dad was now. He’d heard rumors. A cowboy in Idaho. Shot by a jealous husband in North Dakota. In jail in a couple of different places. Trilling just assumed it was jail.
Pershing took a corner into a maze of alleys. They were really more like walkways into different businesses. Then Trilling lost him. The fugitive just seemed to vanish.
Trilling looked in every direction. Nothing. Then he started jogging toward the river, which seemed the most likely path Pershing would’ve taken. Trilling had only taken a few steps when he saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. From around the side of the building a garbage can lid glanced off his head. Trilling ducked and missed the full impact, but it still knocked him a little woozy.
He stumbled back against the brick wall of a building. When he looked up, Lou Pershing was standing in front of him with a three-foot piece of rebar in his hand.
Pershing said, “Who are you?”
“No one.”
Pershing let out a little laugh. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. I’m tough to find. I’d say you look a little like a cop. Or you will when you grow up.” He looked up and down the alley. They could’ve been in the Arctic for all the people they saw right now. “Why are you following me?”