BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH Joshua Brown (large ebook reader .TXT) 📖

kid,” I said, doing as instructed. He got up from the visitor’s chair beside Gwen and left the room.

“I should be heading out, too,” Gwen said, picking herself up and gathering her things.

“Where you headed?” I asked, following her to the door.

“I’ve got a few people to see about this case. A couple might have an idea of what we can do next,” she replied, keeping it cryptic on purpose.

Knowing Gwen all the years I have made it easy to deduce what she meant. Unlike me, a man who always stayed on the right side of the law, Gwen Sullivan often found herself on whichever side best suited her needs.

Though I rarely thought her a criminal to any degree, she had access to a network of rather dangerous people. As curious as I was, I decided not to ask any follow-up questions.

“I’ll call you if I hear anything,” she said.

“Stay safe out there, Gwen,” I replied.

She gave me a hug before departing on her own adventure.

Chapter 10

Gwen

A cool breeze blew through the empty parking lot of the Rio Grande Motel. The only car next to mine was a 1988 Cadilac Broughman in metallic red. I knew the car, the make, the model, and the number plate like the back of my hand.

The car belonged to Tito Lang. Once, one of the most powerful crime bosses in all of New York, reduced to a nothing after his time in prison. That’s where the movies and TV got it wrong—there was no taking care of someone once they went behind bars. They were treated like every other inmate in the joint, no matter their position in the real world.

As instructed, he rented a room on the second floor, leaving a light on. I rarely used his services lately, but with his age and experience, I thought he might be useful on this case. The Crossley Killings happened back in the 1980s, after all, back when Tito had a hand in every shady deal across New York City.

Approaching the door carefully, I reached for the gun on my hip—not to draw but to make sure it was there. Tito Lang had a history, especially with cops, and I wasn’t going to risk it. Just because he was good to me in the past didn’t mean that wouldn’t all change at the drop of a hat.

Putting three hard knocks on the door, I waited for Tito’s call.

“Come in,” he said.

Looking up and down the narrow walkway between the rooms, making sure I wasn’t followed, I stepped into room 1309. As I pushed in, I was greeted by a man holding a shotgun, far too young, strong, and handsome to be Tito.

“Easy there, soldier,” the words left my lips. Still, I rose my hands into the air, showing I wouldn’t try anything funny.

“Ah, Miss Sullivan, it’s you,” Tito said from an armchair across the room. He mumbled something in Japanese, and the shotgun dropped from my chest to the ground.

“You not tell your dog I was coming in?” I asked, eyeing the gunman. I always liked to learn people’s faces if I needed them for something in the future. “And you’ve known me longer than most, I hate being called Miss Sullivan.”

“A man such as myself can never be too careful of those who hide in the shadows,” Tito replied. He gave me a brimming smile that stretched from ear to ear. His crooked, yellow teeth unsettling me to the core.

Tito must’ve been leaning into his 70s by now, if not already beyond that threshold, and somehow, he still looked young enough to be considered middle-aged. His skin was smooth, without a wrinkle in sight, while his hair was the only indicator of his age. He had a long Fu Manchu mustache that ran down his chin to his chest. He was thin, unusually so, and the tiny wifebeater wrapped around his body billowed in the wind.

Somehow, this was the man that once ruled New York.

“And anyway, I’ve got people coming around once we’re done. I just wanted to make sure that they weren’t early,” he waved the comment off like it meant nothing. I wondered if I’d hear about a murder at the Rio Grande Motel in the news the next day but decided not to worry myself unnecessarily. I was here on business, and if he was too, so be it.

The motel room was a grim reminder of what lower-class living and divorced fathers looked like. The stained beige carpet, old and worn furnishings of a coffee table, two chairs, and sofa, topped with a box-style TV were depressing. All the colors looked muted, and the echoey void of despair that filled the room was heart-wrenching.

“Look, I’ve got a couple of questions, and then I’ll be out of your hair. I don’t want to be around for your… business,” I said, awkwardly walking to one side of the room. I contemplated leaning against a wall for a moment and decided against it with the caking filth on it.

“Questions?” he inquired. “You know how this goes, Gwen. I only answer questions that can’t get me in trouble.”

“I know how our agreement works. That’s why I don’t care what you do here later, nor what’s going on in your day-to-day life. Hell, that’s why I ignored the shotgun pointed at my breasts a second ago,” I sniffed.

“Good, then ask away,” he replied, rolling a hand for me to keep them coming.

“I’m struggling on a case, one that’s got roots that are buried pretty darn deep,” I looked him in the eye. Somehow, the thought of me struggling brought a sparkle of joy to his eye. “A family was killed a good few years ago now, in the 80s, they were called the Crossley’s. They had two kids, a boy and a girl, both of