Page 65 of Crosshairs

Trilling said, “You’re a smart guy—you should be able to figure it out.”

Pershing slapped the rusty piece of rebar into his left hand. “I’m going to break both of your arms and both of your legs. Teach a cocky bastard like you a lesson.”

“I may be cocky, but I knew my dad. I didn’t like him. He wasa piece of shit who beat his wife, just like you. But at least I’m not a bastard.” Trilling canted his body. He’d taken on larger men in his life.

Pershing swung the rebar. Trilling dodged it, then delivered an uppercut. It landed perfectly. Trilling felt a crunch as the punch to Pershing’s jaw drove his teeth into his head. Blood spurted from Pershing’s upper lip.

Pershing stumbled backward, swinging the rebar wildly. It brushed across Trilling’s front, the rough end of the steel rebar tearing open his shirt and breaking the skin of his chest.

They both paused for a moment as each man warily watched the other. Trilling noticed Pershing was panting.

Pershing said, “Let’s cut a deal.”

Trilling wasn’t about to negotiate with scum like this. He raised his left fist. When Pershing tried to block it, Trilling threw a front kick, catching Pershing in the gut.

Trilling heard the air rush out of Pershing and knew he had the advantage. He threw a second kick to almost the same spot.

The blow knocked the remaining air out of Pershing and made him drop the rebar. It clanged on the shoddy asphalt in the alley.

Trilling swung his right hand in a big arc, catching Pershing in the face again. The larger man stumbled back to the wall, but somehow he stayed upright.

Trilling unloaded with half a dozen more punches, until Pershing slid to the ground. He fell on top of Pershing, still throwing punches, then stopped mid-punch. What now? He felt like a dog who’d finally caught the car he’d been chasing. Trilling considered delivering the fugitive to the FBI. That wouldn’t work. Too much explaining.

Then he came up with a plan. A plan he didn’t like but that made sense.

He stepped away from Pershing. The fugitive was barely conscious, with blood from his nose and cut lips running down his face. Trilling reached for his phone. There was only one person to call.

CHAPTER 81

I WASN’T FAR from downtown when my phone rang with the piano solo from “Layla,” the ringtone my kids had installed for me a while back. I was shocked to see Rob Trilling’s name on the screen. I thought about not answering the call. I wouldn’t take a call from a suspect in any other homicide investigation. I decided to risk it.

I kept it simple. “Hello.”

“I’m in an alley. I need you to come here right now.” Trilling gave me a couple of cross streets. Then there was silence on the line.

I said, “I’m a few minutes away. I’ll be right there.” I don’t know why I agreed to meet him in person. But something told me it was important. Maybe he’d say or do something that would help me with the case.

Traffic wasn’t overwhelming and it was all right turns. Iwondered if I should call Harry Grissom and let him know what was going on. He’d be worried I was talking to Trilling, but at least someone would know where I was. If there was a problem later, a dispute, at least I’d have a boss who knew what was going on. Then I thought about Trilling. The tone of his voice hadn’t made me think it would be a trap, or that he was trying to trick me somehow.

I double-parked my Impala and gave a quick wave to an electronics store owner who shouted at me. I raced into the alley and realized it was actually a maze of alleys. I called out, “Rob, Rob!”

I heard him call back, “Over here.”

I hustled toward the sound of his voice. I found Trilling sitting next to a big man who was bleeding from a couple of different spots. The man was conscious but not moving too much.

I stared at the scene, and when I didn’t get an explanation, I said, “What’s this?”

Trilling said, “I told you I’d been looking for the fugitive who was partners with the guy who shot at us in the Bronx.”

“The guy who had the Pakistani women to help process heroin?”

Trilling gave me a little smile. “I guess you’re not so old that your memory is going completely.” He looked over at the man on the ground. “This jack-off is Lou Pershing. He’s supposedly the brains of their operation. He’s also wanted for heroin distribution and some weapons charges out of Boston.”

I stared at the bloody man. Then at Trilling. This was not normal. The sick feeling grew in my stomach. I’d been so focused on trying to find a way to exonerate Trilling that I’d missed his real motivations. He had an intense hate for lawbreakers. By the looks of Pershing, we were lucky we didn’t have another homicide on our hands.

Trilling said, “This is your collar now. You’ve got a major federal fugitive in custody.”

“I can’t just stroll into a precinct with this mope.”