Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

Elizabeth picked up her glass. “Nasty business you’re in, Brother Malone.”

I thought about a pair of severed fingers bound up in twine and delivered to a nunnery.

Nasty. To the extreme.

GABRIELLA DIAZ WAS NO LONGER GABRIELLA DIAZ. SHE WAS Gabriella Montero. Mr. and Mrs. Montero lived in a brownstone in the Kensington section of Brooklyn, off the south side of Prospect Park. Their apartment was on the first floor. No one answered the buzzer. The buzzer for the second floor said ALVAREZ. I tried it. After a few seconds, the intercom crackled. “ Hello? Who’s it ?”

I pulled a piece of paper from my notebook and held it close to the intercom and crumpled it.

“ What? Who’s that ?”

I crumpled the paper again and muttered “Mungamumma” into the intercom. The door clicked. I pushed it open.

The front hallway was dark and carried a stale minty smell. A large mirror above a covered radiator offered me a chance to look at myself, but I didn’t take it.

Up the stairs, a creaky door opened. A voice called out, “Who’s there!”

I started up the stairs. The squawky tune they played, I might have been stepping on a succession of cats. A woman with a Medusa of salt-and-pepper dreadlocks caught up in a green bandanna was standing in a doorway at the top of the stairs. The tin sounds of a television program leaked out from her apartment. She was in a flower-print muumuu with her arms crossed tightly on her chest. I stopped three steps from the top. Such was her power.

“What do you want?” The voice was dark, with an island lilt.

“You’re Mrs. Alvarez,” I said.

She scowled. “Don’t tell me what I know. Tell me what I don’t know. Who are you?”

“My name is Fritz Malone. I’m looking for Gabriella Montero.”

Some sort of voodoo pulsed in her eyes. “Get out.”

“But I’m-”

“Get out!” She pointed down the stairs. “She don’t need any more of you, Gabby don’t. You leave this girl alone. No more. She can’t be happy? You stop now. You go!”

“Mrs. Alvarez, I need to-”

“I tell you to go! No comment.” She said it a second time, wagging her finger. “Nooooo comment. She does not see the bad man for many many year. She is married again. You can leave her alone. You quote me . I say, no comment. All those beautiful souls that bad man killed. It is horrible. Get out.”

“I-”

She bent sideways and groped with her other hand just inside the doorway. As she straightened, she was joined by a long double-barreled shotgun that she hitched snugly under her large arm. The twin barrels drifted up several inches until their aim was approximately at my nose. The barrels were as dark as night. Ugly black. A grimace tugged at the sides of the woman’s mouth.

“If I am not speaking loud enough, my friend can speak louder, okay? I mean this. I got no patience with you monkeys.” She shook the gun.

I had my hands out, showing her my palms. You do it without even thinking. I kept my voice steady. “Mrs. Alvarez. Listen. I’m not with the press. I’m not a reporter.”

The black barrels traveled a small circle. “Who are you?”

“I’m here on police business,” I said. Not completely a lie.

Her eyes narrowed. “You are police?”

“Yes.” The lie.

Her dreadlocks shook. “No. The police have been here. Gabby has spoken to the police. You are a reporter. You are another hungry monkey. I know the tricks. The girl knows nothing. You make her cry.”

“I’m not a reporter, Mrs. Alvarez,” I said again. “Put the gun down. Please.”

The barrels drifted up to my eyes. “Who are you? Prove you are police.”

“I am reaching for my wallet,” I said. Gingerly, I reached into my jacket and pulled out my wallet. I flipped it open to my private investigator’s license. Five good seconds would tell a person that the license had nothing remotely to do with the New York City Police Department, but I didn’t give the woman the full five. Her gaze locked on to the license as I climbed the final three stairs. I held the wallet high, and as her gaze followed it, I reached out with my other hand and grabbed hold of the shotgun barrel, twisting it and yanking it from her grip.

“What!”

I dropped my wallet, broke open the shotgun and unchambered a pair of yellow shells. I picked at the end of one and turned it upside down. Fine granules drifted out. “What’s this?” I demanded.

The disarming had punctured the woman’s chutzpah. From the television inside the apartment came a burst of laughter. “Is sand,” she said dejectedly. “I will not kill you.”

“Do you have a license for this firearm?”

“It is lost. But I have it.”

I resnapped the stock and barrel and leaned the shotgun against the wall. I made a point of pocketing the shells. I picked up my wallet from the floor and put it back in my pocket. “All those beautiful souls, Mrs. Alvarez. It’s my job to find out why Gabriella’s ex-husband killed them. We want them to rest in peace now, don’t we?”

“Yes.” A six-year-old had more volume.

I gave her my best smile. “Okay. So, as you were saying. About Mrs. Montero.”

THE LITTLE GIRL WAS SHRIEKING WITH DELIGHT EACH TIME THE SWING sailed forward and up. There was no chance of her falling off; the swing seat was a black rubber diaper that came up well past her waist. The man standing behind the swing was slightly built, with black curly hair and a closely trimmed mustache. He was wearing a gray jacket, a tie loosened at the neck. He appeared to be enjoying himself as much as the little girl was. There was nothing in the child’s face to suggest that she was in any way burdened with the knowledge that three days ago her father had gunned down more than a dozen people at the Thanksgiving Day parade, killing nine of them, or that he had then been killed himself by a bullet to the head on the eighteenth floor of the Municipal Building. Nothing. Nada. The little girl was wearing white shoes, pale blue socks and a navy blue coat. Her shrieks sounded like a miniature police siren.

I stood next to the slide and watched for a few minutes. Sitting on a bench ten feet away from the swing set was Gabriella Montero. She was a small woman. She was clutching a large bouquet of flowers, her forearms resting lightly on an extremely pregnant belly. As Mrs. Alvarez had described. She was pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, full cheeks. I’d been standing at the slide maybe half a minute when her gaze started bouncing between her daughter and me. Her eyes grew darker each time they wandered in my direction. Finally, she sent an invisible signal to her husband. He looked over at me, letting the little girl’s next back swing go by without a push. As I came forward, Hector Montero began slowly shaking his head. He left the girl to her swinging and stepped over to meet me halfway. The delighted shrieking had stopped. I spoke first.

“Mr. Montero, my name is Fritz Malone. I’m not a reporter. I’m a private investigator working with the police on the Thanksgiving Day murders. I’m sorry, but I need to speak with your wife.”

Hector Montero had sad eyes. “We’ve talked with the police. Please. Gabriella has nothing more she can say.”

“I know the police have been by. I still need to talk with her.”

“We are just from church. You can come back tomorrow.”

“I need to speak with her today.”

“But why? Roberto is dead. He will hurt no one now. Why can’t you leave us alone? This is a bad three days. Rosa… she does not know yet about her father.”

The rubber swing was slowing down. Another few passes and it would be at a full stop. The little girl was craning her neck to look in our direction. On the bench, Gabriella had lowered her head.