Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,51
match, sir.’
‘What’s his home address?’
Rach got rid of the webpage and started searching. Jacobs didn’t have a police department file, but she ran his name through the Manhattan directory phonebook instead. ‘Got it. He lives in Tribeca, in a tenth floor apartment on 111 Worth Street.’
‘He’s a lawyer,’ Archer said. ‘He might be at work.’
‘He’s a senior partner,’ Shepherd said. ‘And it’s a weekend. That’s unlikely.’
‘Sir?’ the detective at the door said again.
‘But possible,’ Marquez said. Rach pulled up the window of the law firm again and scrolled down to their address. She pulled the two windows side by side. The law firm wasn’t far away, just off Water Street in the Financial District.
‘Contact the 1 precinct,’ Shepherd told Rach. ‘Have them send a black and white to both addresses. I want this man here as soon as possible.’
‘Sir?’ the detective at the door said for a third time, louder and with more emphasis.
The whole room turned.
‘Sorry to bother you. But there are two men here to see you. They said it’s urgent.’
‘Concerning?’ Shepherd asked.
‘The situation in Manhattan this morning.’
Everyone in the room stared at the detective. Then Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Josh headed out quickly, following the man down the stairs to the lower level.
When they got there, Shepherd looked around.
There was no one standing waiting for him.
To the left, Kruger and Maddy Flood were still sitting where Archer and Josh had left them. They watched the commotion with interest as Shepherd turned to the detective.
‘So where are they?’
‘Interrogation Room 3.’
Shepherd walked quickly down the corridor to the interrogation room. He pushed open the door, walked inside and found a neo-Nazi skinhead dressed in black sitting at the table. A brown-haired man in a suit was beside him, the two of them talking quietly.
Shepherd looked at the suited man.
‘You his lawyer?’
The man shook his head, stepping past the desk and offering his hand. At the same time he pulled an ID from his pocket and flipped it open.
‘No. My name is Agent-in-Charge John Faison. I’m with the ATF.’
‘ATF?’ Shepherd said, shaking his hand. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Faison pointed at the skinhead in the seat, who nodded to Shepherd.
‘I’d like you to meet Special Agent Peterson.’
Across Queens, Jorgensen had just arrived outside Ray Creek’s address with two other detectives. The three men had already vested up and jumped out of the car, moving straight down the path to the house, a Mossberg in each pair of hands. One detective went down the side alley, careful not to make any noise, whilst Jorgensen and the other made their way to the front.
The second detective took point. Jorgensen nodded, racking a round into his shotgun. The guy twisted the handle; the door was open. He pushed it back and the two men ran into the house.
‘NYPD!’
The detective went left and Jorgensen went right. He smashed into what was a downstairs bedroom, looking through the sights of the Mossberg.
He paused, seeing something across the room.
He stared at it for a moment, then lowered the shotgun slowly.
Moments later, the other two detectives appeared in the doorway and froze when they saw what Jorgensen had seen.
‘Jesus,’ one of them said.
They’d found Ray Creek.
Or what was left of him.
TWENTY FIVE
‘How long have you been under, Agent Peterson?’ Shepherd asked. He was now sitting in the chair across the table from the ATF agent whose handcuffs had been removed.
‘Seven months,’ Peterson said, rubbing his wrists. ‘Seven long-ass months.’
Leaning against the wall, Archer inspected the guy and was impressed. He never would have guessed that Peterson was an undercover ATF agent. Short for Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the ATF was the Federal Control Agency for all three, as well as for explosives. Based out of the United States Department of Justice, the Agency protected communities from illegal trafficking, sale or possession of all three. Standing beside Peterson, Agent-in-Charge Faison looked like one of their typical employees. He was conservatively dressed in a suit, brown haired, sturdy, somewhere in his thirties and looked to be in good physical shape. Peterson had to be late twenties or early thirties and looked the complete opposite to Faison with his shaved head, his pierced eyebrow and pale skin. As Archer watched, Peterson slid off his black jacket to reveal a series of neo-Nazi tattoos etched on his forearms. He had an SS inking on the left and an 88 on the right.
88. HH in the alphabet.
Heil Hitler.
‘Are those real?’ Archer asked.
Peterson looked at his arms and nodded.
‘They had to