City of Woe Read online

  Advanced praise for Christopher Ryan’s City of Woe

  Tough and tender, City of Woe is a riveting combination of a straight-up police procedural matched with a psychological thriller -think Ed McBain's 87th Precinct series meets Seven- that also dips into the world of the spiritual bordering on the preternatural. Christopher Ryan writes with authority, verve, and humor; his prose is sharp, quick-witted, and as multifaceted as the streets of New York. His characters are smart, hard-fisted, and full fleshed. Mallory and Gunner should prove ripe for many more adventures. I'm already looking forward to the next one. An impressive debut that will appeal to anyone who enjoys a good solid read.

  — Michael Rogers, Senior Editor, Library Journal

  In his debut novel, City of Woe, Christopher Ryan does a smart turn on the classic police procedural in this murder mystery in which the hero, Detective Mallory, begins to wonder if the perp is as other worldly as his dying father's visions. Ryan's characters are fresh and convincing, his dialogue sharp and funny, and his plot twists will keep readers guessing right up through the suspenseful climax. You don't need to know Dante's Inferrno or Joyce's Dubliners to enjoy this book, but the subtle references add to the many pleasures to be found in these pages. This is a great read.

  — Alice Elliott Dark,

  Award-winning author of In the Gloaming,

  Think of England, and Naked to the Waist

  Reading Christopher Ryan’s debut novel City of Woe transports me back to my days in the NYPD’s Detective Bureau. The dogged pursuit of a killer, the attention to procedural detail, and the witty banter between the hero Mallory and his partner Gunner are dead-on accurate. Ryan has an uncanny ability to bring the reader into many diverse worlds. Far from being a mere detective story, Ryan’s tour de force gives the reader an education into homicide investigation, Dante’s Inferno, Bronx Irish family life, the Roman Catholic Church, and the glory days of Rock and Roll. This would be a difficult feat for a veteran author; Ryan accomplishes it all with ease. City of Woe is a terrific read that I was reluctant to have end. I eagerly await the next one.

  — Jean-Michael Akey,

  NYPD Detective Sergeant, Ret.

  First reader comments:

  Thanks much for taking the time to talk with our book group about City of Woe. It was great fun to hear your thoughts and experiences that went into the book and about the process of creating it. I've never been mistaken for someone who knows anything about literature, but I've read a lot of cop stories, and I thought City of Woe was one of the real winners. If you can interest the people who recognize Dante and Joyce, more power to you. But if you can grab the guys like me who just love a good story well told, you'll sell a lot of books. Best of luck with City of Woe – I'm looking forward to the sequels.

  —Don Harrington, New Canaan, Conn. Computer Specialist, Williams College '71 (and thriller/mystery fan)

  CITY OF WOE

  By

  Christopher Ryan

  A SEAMUS AND NUNZIO PRODUCTIONS, LLC BOOK

  NEW JERSEY

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  CITY OF WOE: A MALLORY AND GUNNER NOVEL

  Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Ryan

  All rights reserved.

  A SEAMUS AND NUNZIO PRODUCTIONS, LLC BOOK

  Published by Seamus and Nunzio Productons, LLC

  508 Windsor Rd.

  New Milford, NJ 07646

  Visit us on Facebook @ CITY OF WOE

  Cover design by Elizabeth Sheehan Graphic Design, www.elizabethsheehandesign.com

  First eBook edition March, 2012

  Digital editions by eBooks By Barb for booknook.biz

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My father taught me to be a reader. Growing up I saw him read the Daily News every day. Pop also read paperbacks; crime novels by Joseph Wambaugh, war novels like The Guns of Navarone, and histories of World War II. He turned me on to rebroadcasts of The Shadow on the radio, and when I brought home copies of the pulp reprints Bantam put out in the Seventies, he read those too. My most enduring image of my father is of him reading. And my sons can tell you they’ve seen me with a book, or these days a Kindle or iPad, every day.

  This book was written to be something he would have loved reading.

  No literature teacher ever gave me more assignments than one of my oldest and dearest friends, Roger Ross. He’d slip me Kerouac, Vonnegut, Kesey, and Robert E. Howard, recite whole routines from George Carlin and Monty Python, and dive into deep discussions about Roy Thomas’ work on The Avengers or Neal Adams/Denny O’Neil’s Batman and Green Lantern/Green Arrow masterpieces, or Jack Kirby’s Kamandi and New Gods genius. The class continues today; I still can’t keep up with his epic consumption and consummate intelligence. But he’s also a shaman in my life. When my father died, I was adrift spiritually. Roger brought me to Native American sweats and helped my find my way.

  This book is written to be something he enjoys.

  No one taught me I could produce something to be read as much as my very best friend, idol, and wife, Tina. Coolest person on the planet, Tina knows who she is and has the strength to uphold her beliefs in defiance of a cynical, often mocking society. She follows her passion, gives to the world, and contributes positively to life on a daily basis, whether teaching her pre-K students, or helping an angry Bronx Irishman find peace and a path to publication. She has spent a quarter of a century (we got married as zygotes) quietly urging me to commit to my dreams, and even made some come true by introducing me to two of the greatest guys I’ve ever known, my sons, Sean and Tyler.

  This book is written to be something she and they are proud of.

  No one can do this alone. Early readers included Tina (about seven times, God bless her!), Roger, Cindi Ortiz, Courtney Powers Milewski, Mike Rogers, Paul Dippolito, Deborah Smyth Reidy, Pricilla Cutri, and Jean-Michael Akey. All provided constructive criticism to various drafts for which I am forever grateful. Marcela Landres did a professional read and review for me. Alice Elliott Dark, a writing professor at Rutgers and a noted author, was a gracious early champion of the cause. Sue and Richard Carroll and their New Canaan, Connecticut Book Group read this novel and welcomed me to a discussion of the book that made my confidence soar. Ed McGettigan had an early draft bound for me that still sits on my shelf reminding me of what could be. Caseen Gaines, former student, adopted son, and valued colleague, was a continuing source of information and support as I tip-toed towards e-publishing. Also invaluable were my students at Hackensack High School, with whom I’ve discussed Dante’s Inferno for 16 years until it was so imbedded in me I couldn’t help but be inspired by it.

  This book is written because they have inspired and breathed life into it.

  Mostly, though, this book is written for you, the audience I’ve wanted to establish a relationship with for most of my life. Like a shy kid at the eighth grade dance, I’ve wanted to come over and introduce myself to you for so long. So, hi. Thanks for coming. Hope you enjoy your stay.

  The greatest service I can do in life is to provide a story people enjoy, characters they become attached to, and thoughts that stay with them. I truly hope I’ve accomplished at least some of this, especially for my sons. Having them enjoy this would be the absolute best.

  I hope to hear from you, and continue this journey with you for years to come. Thanks for giving me a chance.

  - Christopher Ryan

  CITY OF WOE

  By Christopher Ryan

  ONE

  Paul Farrington was a face-to-face guy. Want to talk business? Set up a meet. He didn’t mess with texting, conference calls, or e-mails. Nothing traceab
le.

  Except when it came to family. Madge, his source of marital bliss for 23 years, and Isabella, his precious jewel, liked to talk on the cell before bed when they weren’t all home together, so here he was driving with a Bluetooth jammed into his ear.

  “Hon, I get the picture, lots of rich people on and off campus. Still, she’ll fit in.”

  Two blocks from their home, the GPS screen mounted on his beloved Caddie’s dashboard blinked red three times. The modifications Brisbane had made were paying off, alerting him that someone had tripped the perimeter monitors on his property.

  Farrington cut the headlights, spun the wheel sharply right, and plunged the car off the street and onto Mrs. Ferguson’s driveway. Sweet old gal would be sleeping for hours by now; no worries about borrowing her space. “Bottom line: did she like Yale?”

  “With reservations, yes. Izzie wants to see the other campuses before making any decisions.”

  He popped the modified GPS off its dashboard perch and secured it right over his watch face. “That’s my girl,” he smiled, tapping a button that caused the blinking light to be replaced with a directional indicator that pointed northeast and read .25 mi. “And, hey, we need to start calling her Isabella; what kind a name is Izzie for an Ivy Leaguer?”

  “Don’t set your heart on it, sweetie, Izzie and I were just talking about whether we can even afford any of these colleges.”

  Switching off the interior car light, he opened the car door silently, slipped out, crept to the rear of the vehicle, popped the trunk soundlessly. “’Bella wrote a perfect score on the SATs, hon; she’s going to a top school. I’ll delay retirement a few years, so what? We will afford whatever she needs, and that’s final.”

  Farrington quietly shifted two pieces of luggage, allowing him to extract a 50 caliber Action Express Desert Eagle, personally modified by Brisbane with a silencer equal in length to the monster handgun.

  “Whatever you say,” Madge yawned, signaling both surrender and the beginning of their cherished nightly ritual.

  He screwed the gun parts together. Now the gun looked like he was carrying a short cane. “So tomorrow you two head up to Boston, scout the colleges we agreed upon. If I can get an extra few days off, I’ll join you. If not, we switch luggage at Newark Airport Friday at 1700 hours, and fly out on Continental at 1800. I got your warm weather stuff all packed and in the trunk already.”

  “Our clothes will be a million wrinkles!”

  He slid night vision goggles over his eyes. “Not the way I pack, hon. Semper Fi, baby.”

  “Izzie reserves the right to have everything pressed when we get to Disney World.”

  “You women have no faith in military training. Our schedules all set, boss?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “So, we ready for goodnight smooches?”

  She blew him a kiss. He did the same, then killed the line. One of the keys to success in their marriage was never saying goodbye; they just let the bliss continue.

  Farrington pocketed the Bluetooth, turned off the cell, then disappeared silently into the foliage leading to his upper Rockland County home. He took his time, moving without sound toward the invader.

  Fact was senior partners at The Company had been dropping lately due to “heart attacks,” “aneurisms,” and other natural causes from which rich people weren’t supposed to die. This little visit confirmed his suspicions; someone was orchestrating a sophisticated, silent coupe. And whomever it was had realized Farrington would be contracted for defense. Eliminating him was an understandable objective. But at his home? Where his wife slept? Where his daughter felt safe? Big mistake.

  He approached their property from behind that little gurgling artificial waterfall Madge recently had installed. He never understood the attraction but the sound covered his approach; at least now he could write it off as a business expense.

  He saw his target 50 feet away, laying in wait among those rose bushes Madge tended over slavishly. The would-be hit man was young. “Trying to burn the old man, huh,” Farrington thought, bristling just a bit. “Take my place?” He raised the Eagle, using both hands to prep for the horse kick to come, and aimed for the assassin’s trigger hand. “You ain’t burning me, kid,” he smirked at the notion, “I got bills.”

  Even with the extensive silencer, the shot sounded like muffled thunder. The assassin’s hand exploded. To his credit, the younger man came up firing with his other.

  Admirable, but one calm trigger squeeze from Farrington and the shooter was headless. Couldn’t have bullets flying through neighbors windows; it would draw attention. Too bad about the kid’s head, though, Farrington noted. He would have liked to question the guy as he bled out, confirm who’d done the hiring, trim down his own To Do list.

  The problem was clear, the solution simple. If his genius daughter, currently a high school junior, was going Ivy League as he dreamed, Farrington needed to work. Private special ops never made anyone a millionaire, despite what Hollywood movies suggested, and his line of employment didn’t come with 501ks, pension plans, disability or annuities. Unwilling to drain the nest egg to pay college expenses, he had to sustain the income his family was used to, and he was now too old to go out on the open market. Demolition guys, cleaners, fixers, black ops from the Iraq and Afghanistan messes were crowding the field these days. Sure, no one had the whole package like he did, but they were younger, worked cheaper, and were less demanding — a blight on the profession, to be honest, and a pain in his ass. Bottom line, he’d have to remove anyone who might have knowledge of this contract. It was the right thing to do; remove the obstacle set before his family. Simple logic.

  The Company was about to get an overhaul, and he would not let it stick to him.

  Breaking his no business calls policy, Farrington speed-dialed a number, listened to the pre-recorded greeting, then said, “Connect with IS – 3860.”

  A whirr, a click, and a hum later, he heard Brisbane’s perennially cheerful voice. “Scrambling are we? How Jack Bauer of you.”

  “We still on for tomorrow night?”

  “Of course. Rich old sods rocking at 8, yes?”

  “Let’s get there a bit earlier. I need to go shopping.”

  “Identity theft! How delicious.”

  TWO

  The corpse came with footnotes.

  That’s what the Lieu said to get Detective Frank Mallory to drag his ass in on his day off, leaving his family and the promise of his in-law’s legendary homemade lasagna. Approaching the crime scene now against his wishes, Mallory pushed his usually swift pace even faster, weaving his way efficiently through gawking civilians, old school aviator shades hiding the frustration blazing in his eyes.

  Let the rest of Manhattan’s Major Case Squad study the vic, reportedly a white male, 19, found bludgeoned. They can figure out why a Brooklyn kid would be way up on 10th Avenue and 215th Street. He wanted that lasagna. A twinge of guilt amended his thought: and family, too. Of course. Loved his family. Loved them. And definitely wanted to be with them. But that lasagna, damn shame to leave that, especially to consult on someone else’s case. Again. No. He refused to get sucked into someone else’s catch. Not this time.

  Not when there’s Sicilian made-from-scratch lasagna at stake.

  Hustling across 215th, Mallory noticed a well-dressed couple carrying fresh palms from Palm Sunday mass ambling toward the crime scene, casually curious. He slowed momentarily, waved them off with a nonchalant hand. “You folks don’t want to ruin your beautiful morning,” he said. “Today’s for family, not this.” Smiling their little embarrassed smiles, they changed direction obediently.

  Mallory’s partner, Detective Alberto “Gunner” Gennaro, waited for him at the corner, nodding along with the sway of the well-dressed woman’s curvaceous butt as she sashayed away. “I love them womens in their Sunday finest…” he sang, kind of. The bigger, sloppier man fell in step alongside Mallory, his immense bulk matching his partner’s near trot effortlessly. “Wha
t’s the plan?”

  “Get in, consult, get out quick. Gina’s parents made lasagna.”

  “So I’m coming home with you.”

  “Might as well. Gina’s gonna put a plate aside for you anyway.”

  “I love that woman. You ever get killed in the line of duty, I’m marrying her.”

  “It comes to that I’m shooting you before I die.”

  They hustled toward the subway entrance where the 1, 2, 3, and 9 lines ran, arriving just as the Crime Scene Unit finally finished. Ever since all those CSI shows hit it big, these guys had become prima donnas. Work that used to take an hour tops now routinely lasted two to three.

  A couple of vets smirked as the partners zipped past. “Hey look, Mulder and Scully are on the scene,” one cracked.

  Another joined in. “Told you it was aliens.”

  Mallory bristled. Gunner covered: “O’Connor, quit pimping your sisters, Moldy and Skull Fuck. I told ya before, we ain’t interested in no five dollar hoes.”

  Mallory frowned. “I hate that Mulder and Scully crap. Can’t we just be part of the squad?”

  “Aww, they’re just jealous ‘cause we’re so pretty,” Gunner smirked. “Anyway, we ain’t long for this place; look at these all-stars,” he nodded toward the paunchy, disheveled, sleep-deprived detectives standing off to the side, a few reading from small reporter’s notebooks, comparing information, most just drinking coffee. “Clearly, these foot-long studs have the case by the short hairs already.”

  Mallory and Gunner ducked under the tape, then descended the subway entrance stairs into the crime scene.

  Spotlights illuminated the body, one hand melodramatically lashed to a thick, dark metal gate with what appeared to be his belt. The rest of him lay amid garbage: a flyer for Hustler Magazine’s West Side strip club, McDonald’s wrappers, an empty Poland Springs water bottle, and a sodden copy of The New York Post, its headline screaming: DIET CANCER!