Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense Fynn Perry (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

David tried to call Hamilton again, but there was still no answer. Jennifer got back to her laptop and opened up the internet page with her search engine. “Do you remember anything about the story or what precinct the detective was from?”

“The story was about a Ukrainian gang working out of Brooklyn. I remember it because I was dealing at the time with a huge turf war involving Ukrainian mobsters in Miami when I was the D.A. there. He had to be a detective from a Brooklyn precinct but I can’t recall which one. He arrested the gang’s ringleader––there must be something on the internet about it …. Wait…his first name was Daniel I think…like Detective Williams …the guy who arrested Hardwell.”

As David wracked his brain for the surname, Jennifer had already typed in the keywords ‘Ukrainian gang leader arrest’, ‘Brooklyn’ and ‘Detective Daniel.’

Several news stories came up relating to arrests of gang members. Jennifer scanned the first one and then read out a sentence beginning: “Daniel Lazlo of the 73rd Precinct stated––”

“Lazlo! That’s it! Daniel Lazlo!” David interrupted triumphantly. “We have to take a chance on catching him at the precinct, then. Let’s hope he’s not out on a case or on vacation.”

Eighteen

The 73rd Precinct was located in Brownsville, Brooklyn, at the corner of East New York Avenue and Bristol Street. It was a strange example of Seventies architecture with a design featuring an overhanging floor, a facade filled with corners and a line of bright-blue columns.

In the privacy of David’s car, father and daughter had agreed that this time David would do all the talking. He would give Lazlo details of what Hamilton was working on and how he, not Jennifer, had given the journalist the story. Speaking with the police was a whole different ballgame to talking to a journalist, after all. David would add credibility as a lawyer and could state, unchallenged, that the source of the information was a walk-in client at the legal aid clinic––an immigrant worker at the fulfillment center who was too scared to come forward himself and whose identity had to be kept confidential under attorney-client privilege. It was somewhat believable and far more acceptable than the truth. Their knowledge of the organ harvesting would be more difficult to explain. It was unlikely that any member of a highly paid transplant team would walk in and spill a story of illegal organ trade at a legal clinic. They would just have to cross that bridge when they got to it.

Jennifer had tried Hamilton’s number again three times since leaving the house, each time with increasing concern. An automated message was stating now that the number was out of service. “We need to report him as missing to Lazlo,” she said fearfully.

David reluctantly agreed.

As they walked into the building, John and Jennifer noticed less spirit activity at this precinct. The spirits seemed less aggressive and kept to themselves, leaving John alone, much to his relief.

The desk sergeant informed David that Detective Lazlo was indeed on duty today, but she wasn’t sure if he was out on a case. The waiting area was full and, given that David and Jennifer looked harmless and respectable, she let them into the detective pen and said they should ask for him there.

The pen consisted of twelve desks paired up and facing each other. About a third were occupied by men in suits, speaking on phones or staring into PC screens. The atmosphere was like most places of businesses where people sat together: the air was buzzing with conversations––some lively, some mundane, occasional jokes and inevitable groans referencing burdensome paperwork.

David asked one of the detectives for the whereabouts of Lazlo and was told he had been called to a homicide several hours ago, but there was a good chance he would be back soon. A couple of seats at Lazlo’s desk, together with an advance apology for the quality of the vending machine coffee, were offered. Jennifer and David accepted both.

After an hour, a man—clearly an NYPD detective—blustered through the pen toward his desk. He stopped momentarily to exchange comments with the other detectives. With his tall and wiry frame, dark hair, and olive skin, he stood out.

“That’s Lazlo!” Jennifer whispered, recognizing him from a photo she had seen in the online news article.

David regarded Lazlo as the detective approached. There seemed to be a nervous energy about him. He’d wager the guy was someone who got things done, and fast. David had met this type of cop before— they were keen to close cases, but rarely did so by the book.

Lazlo was surprised to find someone waiting for him. He had just come back from a murder scene and had seen the aftermath of a particularly gruesome, execution-style killing. He had concluded that a soft-nosed bullet had been used––clean in entry but creating a mess on exit––to blow the victim’s face off with a shot to the back of the head. The sight of a faceless victim was something he would never get used to. It was such a personal violation, and left nothing for the next of kin to say good-bye to. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the body had also been burnt.

CSU had taken partial fingerprints from the corpse and would run them through the database. Identification might also be possible from dental records. The whole process meant a lot of detailed paperwork for Lazlo to get through, so the visitors at his desk were not a welcome sight.

As he approached his desk, he smiled and asked what he could do to help. He had always been courteous. Good manners cost nothing. Besides, he was sure he could offload these visitors onto one of his colleagues. Whatever they had going on couldn’t possibly be worth him getting distracted from the case he was working on.

Lazlo took his jacket off and sat down opposite them. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing small tattoos evenly spaced along his