Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

“Are you a lawyer or just a pest?”

“What did Carroll say to the three of you when you were hanging around the Municipal Building? Before he and Cox went inside.”

“I think we’re finished talking.”

“He didn’t by any chance say, ‘Stick around, Cox has some unfinished business with the guy who gunned down his partner,’ anything like that? ‘Hang tight, we’re bringing a dead guy out here in a few minutes’?”

“What’s all this about?”

“I’m just trying to see how many lies the commissioner is getting you and your partner to sign off on. I’m trying to figure out how deep a hero Leonard Cox is.”

“Figure it out somewhere else.”

“What’s your partner’s name?”

“Levine. Why?”

“No reason. I just collect names. Hobby of mine.”

He let his breath out in a large sigh. “I’m just doing my job, man. Why don’t you let it go?”

“Were you and Levine still there when Cox and Carroll brought Diaz out?” A thought occurred to me the moment I said this. “No. Carroll had to get over to City Hall and face the cameras. Cox must have gotten help. Was that you and Levine? Did you help load the body into Cox’s cruiser so they could take it to St. Luke’s and have it pronounced dead?”

“You’re done here,” Noon said.

“Did you?”

“I said go.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’m saying it now.”

He took a step toward me. I didn’t think he would be so stupid as to actually take a swing at me, but I braced. Though with my sore shoulder, I wouldn’t have been much for blocking the punch if he decided to take one. He looked strong.

He didn’t take the swing. He took the step, expecting I would back away. When I didn’t, we were left as close as two moony kids at a prom dance.

“Well,” I said. “Nice chatting with you.”

I stepped away from him and rejoined Margo at the elevator.

“What was that all about?” she asked. “I thought you two were about to kiss.”

“I’m not his type.”

“If you were his type, I guess you wouldn’t be mine.”

“That’s very narrow of you,” I said.

She shrugged. “I’m narrow.”

The elevator arrived. Again. We got on. Down the hall, Patrick Noon was watching us as the door slid closed.

“He’s scared,” I said.

“He didn’t look scared to me.”

I pushed the lobby button. The elevator jolted and started down.

“I got a lot closer than you did.”

PHILIP BYRON CALLED ON MY CELL PHONE JUST BEFORE SIX O’CLOCK. “We’re on.”

Margo was rubbing Mineral Ice on my shoulder. Turquoise gel. Goes on cold, settles in hot. Amazing stuff.

“We’re on,” I parroted back to Byron. “Good. So the mayor got the Wisconsin thing in?”

“I just checked with Channel Four. It’s in their footage. Is your TV on?”

It was, though it was actually Margo’s TV. We were at her place. The volume was turned down low. We were watching whales spawn.

“Channel Four,” I said. “I’ll watch it. So everything’s been taken care of at the museum?”

“We’re all set there.”

“And the money?”

“Everything’s in place. We want this thing to go off smoothly and simply. No bumps.”

“I hope our Mr. Nightmare wants the same,” I said.

“You know where to meet?”

“I’ve got it.”

“The mayor appreciates your service on this,” Byron said.

“No problem. It’ll be handy having City Hall in my pocket.”

There was a pause. “That’s not funny, Mr. Malone.”

“Really? I sort of thought it was.”

He hung up.

Margo asked, “Did the mayor say ‘Wisconsin’?”

“Apparently. If you can pull yourself away from your copulating whales, we can see. Channel Four.”

We muted the volume. I didn’t want to hear the new anchor’s version of the previous day’s events and where things allegedly stood. The truth surrounding the pair of assaults had already split into separate pieces, each of which was traveling down its own track. The version I was privy to was a lot spicier than the one being broadcast. Not to mention that it held more facts. But when footage of Rebecca Gilpin dancing her little fanny off in the dinghy started running, I barked, “Sound.”

“Yes, master.”

The attempt to keep mum on Rebecca Gilpin’s presence at Barrymore’s the night before was already crumbling. The theater had announced that the actress had picked up a flu and would be out of the show over the weekend. Her understudy would be going on. But rumors were materializing that Rebecca had been at the restaurant when the coat-check closet exploded and that she was anywhere from mildly injured to critically injured to already dead. A tearful fan out in front of the theater was convinced that the rumors of the actress’s death were the accurate ones. A know-nothing overreacting to a rumor that is false is not news. They let the woman blubber on for a good ten seconds.

A spokesman for the mayor had been sent to handle the Rebecca Gilpin matter. Was she dead? Had she been at Barrymore’s after all? Wasn’t there a connection between the two Thanksgiving Day incidents? The spokesman had used up his airtime essentially declaring that he didn’t know a damn thing.

“Fumble,” I said.

“Why didn’t they just let the story out in the first place?” Margo said.

“Desperate attempt at containment. Pointless.”

“It’s blowing up in their faces.”

“Fumble,” I said again.

The next story concerned Roberto Diaz. It didn’t contain much substance. Diaz had lived alone in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn. He was divorced with a young daughter. No other details had been uncovered. His neighbors had nothing insightful to say about him, but they were allowed to say it anyway. None of them “had any idea” that he was planning such a horrific thing as the attack at the parade. He was described as “a quiet man” who “kept to himself.”

“Shush,” Margo said when she heard the beginnings of my growl.

“It’s what they always say.”

“Just let them say it.”

Details on the termination of Diaz’s employment at the messenger service were reported as unclear. A spokesman for the company had weighed in with a “no comment.”

Margo scooted to the end of the couch and brought a foot up onto my lap. I pretended to ignore it, but it kept batting me in the ribs. I finally took hold of it.

The mayor came on next. He was standing at a podium along with a very uncomfortable-looking Leonard Cox. Tommy Carroll stood behind them, half out of the picture. Leavitt praised Officer Cox for his courage and his dedication to duty and all the rest. He told him that the city was grateful. It was a very polished presentation. The mayor was wearing a bright green tie. It looked absurdly inappropriate.

Leavitt took hold of Cox’s hand and pumped his arm vigorously. “The people of this city are proud of you. I’m sure the people of your home state, Wisconsin, are proud of you as well.”

“Message delivered,” I said.

Margo said, “I think it stinks that they want you to hand off the money. I don’t like it.”

“The people of Wisconsin will be proud of me.”

Her foot kicked lightly at my ribs. “I’m serious. I don’t want you to do it.”

“Someone has to do it,” I said.

“But why you?”

“I’m qualified.”

“I hate it,” she said. “I wish you sold shoes for a living.”

I balanced her foot in my hand and studied it. I vetoed a few too-easy cracks, then lowered the foot back onto my lap. “I’ll be fine.”

She glowered at me. “I want a big juicy steak for dinner.”