William Heffernan - Red Angel

Devlin approached the man and found that he was now blocking the way to the next room. At six-one, Ippolito stood fairly even with Devlin, but gave away a good twenty pounds.

“You want to take us to the Bathrobe, Mattie?” Devlin made the suggestion with a small, hard-eyed smile. “Or should I just toss you out of the way and find him myself?”

Ippolito shook his head with mock sadness. “Hey, we could be nice about this, you know? Don Giovanni, he’s sick, just like the old lady tol’ you. All I’m asking here is a little respect.”

“Hey, Mattie, we could respectfully drag his ass down to headquarters. How about that?” Pitts had come up beside Devlin, hovering like some intimidating specter ready to be unleashed.

“All right. All right. Let them in. We’ll have the place fumigated later.”

Devlin smiled at the sound of Rossi’s crackling, rasping voice. Pitts’s suggestion mat they drag him down to headquarters had momentary merit. It would be a waste of time, of course. It would prove useful only if Columbo-family hit men were waiting when he left One Police Plaza. But the mayor would not be amused by a mob shoot-out one block away from City Hall.

Rossi was seated in a wingback chair when they entered the room. His small, frail body was covered by a silk bathrobe over silk pajamas, his rattier, moth-eaten attire being reserved for public appearances. His feet were clad in slippers, revealing bony, painfully white ankles.

“So, the New York Police Department’s inspector of detectives. Such an honor.” Rossi’s chin was elevated and seemed to point at Devlin. The pose was a replica of the portrait that hung above the mantel behind him-Rossi’s hero, II Duce, at the height of his power, when all the trains in Italy ran on time.

“How old are you now, Devlin?” he continued. “Thirty-eight?” He shook his head. “Amazing. I never thought you’d live past thirty-six. God has been good to you.”

Devlin glared at him. It was two years ago that Rossi tried to have him killed. “You did your best, Bathrobe. It just wasn’t good enough.”

Rossi wagged a finger. “Hey, that’s an ugly rumor. I’m seventy-three, a sick old man. The doctors say I’m dying.” A small smile toyed at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, if I wanted you dead, the worms would already be eating your eyes.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “But, instead, you’ll probably go to my funeral.”

In spite of himself, Devlin smiled at the man’s chutzpah. He raised his eyes to the portrait of Mussolini. “They tell me that back in forty-five, when you saw the newspaper pictures of II Duce hanging by his feet, you wept.”

Rossi nodded. “I even sent flowers to Italy.”

Devlin stared at him, unmoved. “I’ll send flowers for you, too, Rossi. But I think I’ll skip the wake.”

Rossi let out a low cackle. “See, that’s the difference between us. Me? I’d come to your wake. And I’d piss in your coffin.”

Rossi’s laughter grew, then he turned to Ippolito. “This is a hard man, Mattie. Don’t let him fool you. You see that scar on his cheek?” He waited while Ippolito looked. “A crazy cop gave him that, five, maybe six years ago. And, after he did, Devlin blew that cop away.” He widened his eyes, feigning surprise. “That’s right, the man’s a cop killer, just ask him.”

“Shut up, Rossi.” It was Pitts, and the words came with a growl.

Rossi ignored him. “This crazy cop, he cut the inspector’s arm, too-cut it so bad Devlin retired on disability. Took a job as chief of police in some shithole town in Vermont.” He glanced back at Devlin. “You didn’t think I knew so much about you, eh?” He turned back to Ippolito and regretfully shook his head. “But then he came back. Seems one of those crazy serial killers was out to get an old girlfriend of his. So Devlin here, he comes back, and this killer ends up dead, too, and now his old girlfriend is his new girlfriend again. Just like fucking Hollywood. They live together with Devlin’s daughter in some hotsy-totsy loft down in SoHo. It’s a beautiful story.”

Rossi’s eyes went back to Devlin and the two men glared at each other. The scar on Devlin’s cheek had turned white, a telltale sign that anger had reached the edge of control. Devlin’s lover, Adrianna, and his daughter, Phillipa, had been with him two years ago when Rossi’s killers had come. The threat that it could happen again was clear.

Hatred fled Rossi’s eyes as quickly as it had come, and he turned back to Ippolito. “But the story’s not over, Mattie. There’s more. Devlin gets the killer, and he gets the girl. It’s all beautiful, like I said. But then the mayor comes to him”-he raised a finger-“the mayor, no less. You got that?”

“I got it,” Ippolito said.

“And the mayor asks him to come back to work for the city. But not just as some shitheel detective, like he was before-but to come back as inspector of detectives. And working exclusively for the mayor, himself.” He paused for effect. “You know what that means, Mattie?”

“No. I don’t know what that means.”

Rossi wagged another educating finger. “That, my friend, means that Devlin, here, can supersede anybody in the police department-even the chiefs. ” He shook his head. “Can you imagine what it would mean if the crooks did something like that? Chaos, my friend. Chaos.” He waved his hand in a circle. “Soldiers superseding capos. Capos superseding bosses. It would be crazy. Everybody would be at everybody’s throats.”

“Crazy,” Ippolito said.

Rossi’s finger shot up again. “Maybe that’s why the other cop bosses don’t like Inspector Devlin.” He turned back to Devlin, his eyes brimming hatred again. “You think maybe those other bosses wouldn’t go to your funeral, Devlin?”

Devlin returned the stare. “I’ll be happy as long as you’re there, Bathrobe. Pissing in my coffin.”

Rossi threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t like you, Devlin. But I like you.” The hatred returned. “So why the fuck are you here? Tell me quick. I feel an attack coming on. And then I won’t be able to talk to you no more.”

“I’m here to tell you it’s time to retire, Bathrobe. To go someplace nice and sunny, and let all the killing stop.”

“Retire from what, Devlin? I’m already retired. I even get Social Security from the government.” He cackled again.

“Keep laughing, Bathrobe. They got another one of your boys, today.” It was Pitts. He was grinning. “Vinnie Big Head. All that’s left is a big grease spot on Broome Street.”

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “Makes you happy, huh? So you come out here, and you handcuff my people to your car. Oh, yeah, I saw that shit. You’re hoping, maybe, some shooters come by and kill them, too. Well, fuck you.” Rossi jabbed a finger into his cadaverous chest. His hawklike nose and jutting chin pushed forward. “I’ll be here when all of you are fucking dead. You tell that to the fucking mayor. Tell him to fucking retire.”

“So your doctors are wrong, huh?”

Rossi’s head snapped back to Devlin. He was smiling again, and his eyes glittered with a touch of madness. “I got a new doctor. A kind of doctor you never heard of.” His smile widened, revealing ancient, crooked, yellow teeth. “But you will, Devlin. I promise you. And you’ll be amazed at the miracles this doctor can do.”

“I don’t think he fucking likes you.”

Pitts was driving toward Nathan’s, his hotdog request having been approved. Devlin stared out the passenger window, watching the neighborhood become rougher and more battered as they headed south.

“The man’s crazy as a bedbug. I never recognized that before. Now I’m sure of it.”