The driver died from inhaling superheated air and burns over most of his body. The arsonist that Manny had shot had managed to roll away from the flames, but he was badly burned and unmoving.

Once the paramedics loaded ambulances with the survivors, all under arrest and escorted by police, the Crime Scene Unit teams began securing the area, waiting for the Medical Examiner personnel who would investigate and handle the dead.

While all that was going on, Esposito and Mosebee pounded on Beck’s front door. Alex Liebowitz appeared in his pajamas, looking bewildered and somewhat terrified at the gunshots and fires.

Of course, he had been prepped by Beck.

All the computer equipment and files had been locked and secured behind a fake back wall.

Whatever questions the cops asked him, he answered, telling Esposito that James Beck was not around, he didn’t know where he was, or when he might return. As for Ciro Baldassare, Alex told the cops he had never heard of him, but that James Beck might know him.

He volunteered that they should contact Beck’s lawyer, who he was sure would straighten everything out.

Alex kept jabbering at Esposito and Augustus Mosebee, distracting them, trying to hand them a piece of paper with the phone number of Phineas P. Dunleavy.

When they asked Alex for ID, he presented it. When they asked why he was at this address, Alex said he was staying there while his place was being renovated.

Esposito finally grabbed the piece of paper Alex kept trying to give him and threw it on the floor. Knowing the building would be empty, he and Augustus did a cursory search and stormed out.

Esposito realized this was now out of his hands. His only course of action was to stay out of the way of McManus and the other higher-ups now on the scene. He and Augustus trudged back to his car. They’d already given their preliminary interviews. Now they would have to wait for their union delegates, and start the long procedures that were standard.

While he waited, Esposito tallied the damage. He counted seven out front, eight in the back lot. All of them either dead or out of commission. As far as Esposito could figure, the only ones dead had been killed by police gunfire or by a gasoline fire that looked like it had been started by the men who had been burned.

A sixteenth body had been found out on Beard Street. A preliminary investigation concluded that he had cut his neck on razor wire trying to escape over the fence at that end of the lot. Probably while Esposito and the others were emptying their guns at the other end.

The sky was beginning to lighten.

Augustus had somehow obtained a pint of Johnnie Walker Black. He took a long pull and handed the bottle to Esposito, who shook his head.

“Fucking mess,” said Augustus.

“Goddammit.” Esposito shook his head.

“What?”

“We got played.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“That retired cop who came to see me.”

“What about him?”

“He told me to come out here heads up, ready to call for backup because there would be more than the two guys on our warrants at the location.”

“Well, he fucking got that right.”

“No. I thought he was talking about Beck’s crew.” Esposito motioned toward Conover and the empty lot. “You think any of these guys are in Beck’s crew?”

Augustus shrugged. “Who gives a shit? It still turns out good for you. You took down a bunch of bad guys. Armed. Trying to kill cops. End of story.”

Esposito shook his head. “I don’t like being played.”

Augustus waved a hand, too tired or uninterested to argue the point.

“Think about it. Beck had to have planned this whole thing. Sixteen men show up here with guns and gasoline. Why? To take down Beck and whoever else was here. Sixteen of them. None of them even got near the place. They didn’t firebomb it. There’s not even a bullet hole in that building. Beck, and whoever he had with him, somehow got the drop on all sixteen. They fucked some of ’em up pretty good, but didn’t kill them. So there’s no murder investigation. That takes most of the heat off this. The only ones who killed anybody is us. We’re the ones who are going to be investigated.”

“Correct. And we’ll get medals for it. It was a righteous shooting.”

“Probably. But where’s Beck? Who helped him? How many of them did it take to do all this damage?”

Augustus took another pull of Scotch. “Don’t know. Don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna rack out in the backseat of your car. Let me know who we have to talk to, and when I can get the fuck out of here.”

“Go ahead.”

“And one more thing, Jeffrey.”

“What?”

“If you still got to serve those warrants after all this shit, don’t call me.”

72

Beck’s phone woke him from a nearly comatose sleep. Demarco was just exiting the Belt Parkway, headed for Coney Island Avenue. Beck fumbled for the TALK button and croaked, “Hang on.”

He took a deep breath, trying to come fully awake, to focus.

“Go ahead.”

Ricky Bolo muttered into the phone.

“Congratulations. You’re still alive.”

“So far. What’s happening?”

“Things have been quiet since that group headed out. About thirty seconds ago, a black Tahoe pulled up. It’s sitting right in front of the entrance to that apartment building.”

Beck said, “Hang on.” He turned to Demarco, “How far away are we from Kolenka’s?”

“About five minutes.”

He turned back to the cell phone. “Can you see into the Tahoe?”

“No. Tinted windows.”

“Anybody getting out?”

“No. Looks like they’re waiting for somebody.”

“You’re not anyplace you’ll be spotted are you?”

“Nah. We’ve been in the same spot for hours. Engine’s off. It’s like we’re parked overnight. We got a little space heater running off the battery. We’re good.”

“Okay. Call me if something else happens.”

Beck hung up and turned to Demarco, “How long since we left Red Hook?”

“About a half hour. What are you thinking?”

“Kolenka knows by now something went wrong. He’s got to get somewhere safer. Somewhere we don’t know about.”

Demarco continued down Coney Island Avenue. He was three blocks from Kolenka’s building. Beck’s phone rang.

“Yeah.”

“Another car pulled up behind the SUV. Cadillac. XTS. Three hard types got out. One went into the building. Two are standing guard just outside the entrance, guns out. A big meatball got out of the passenger side of the SUV. He’s got a piece in his hand, too.”

Beck told Demarco, “Pull over, D.” Then he told Ricky, “Shit. Looks like they’re getting ready to take our guy out of there.”

“Yep.”

“All right. Can you tail them?”

“Traffic is dead. It’s not rush hour yet. We’ll have to lag way behind, but it shouldn’t be hard.”

“Okay, we’ll trail you and then probably switch back and forth so they won’t spot you. You in the white van?”

“Still in the Bolo-mobile.”

“Stay on the phone and tell me what’s happening.”

“It’s like they’re moving the fucking president.”

“They are.”

“All right. Here we go. There’s a small old guy coming out now. Raggedy-ass suit coat over a white sweater, baggy pants, smoking. Everybody’s looking around. The one who went in for him is on one side. Another guy on the other. The third one is leading them to the Cadillac. Everybody has guns out. They’re putting him in the back of the Cadillac.”

“Who’s in which car?”

“The big guy and I’m guessing just a driver in the SUV. Can’t see through the windows. The boss man and two bodyguards in back of the Cadillac. Another bodyguard and driver in front. Cadillac leading. SUV trailing.”

“Stay with ’em. Keep your phone on.”

Beck put his phone on speaker and placed it in the Mercury’s ashtray so Demarco could hear Ricky Bolo’s running narrative. Kolenka’s cars were on Neptune Avenue headed east.