Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

Two women walked by laughing. Graduate students. Or maybe even professors. One of them looked astonishingly like Jenny Gray. The Jenny Gray of six years ago. She looked over at me and broke off the laughter. It only made the similarity all the stronger. I lost a few perfectly good heartbeats. I could also feel the blood rising to my cheeks. I switched ears on the phone and shifted the topic.

“By the way, thanks for telling Leonard Cox how to find me this morning,” I said. I went ahead and quoted Margo. “Ever hear of a phone? Or waiting until a decent hour?”

“You were with that girl in Fort Pete. She ends up on the slab. I’m not going to sit on my ass until the sun comes up before I find out what the hell went on.”

“I guess your pocket-cop gave you his report.”

“Don’t you fucking ‘pocket-cop’ me, Malone. I’m the commissioner. They’re all in my pocket. Don’t smart-ass me. Cox told me you had nothing. He did say she scratched your face up pretty good.”

“Ruined my modeling career,” I said. “So anything on her murder?”

“Forensics might come up with something. Miss Bia was definitely killed in the van. They’ve determined that already. The body wasn’t moved. But they might get something off her to tell us where she’d been before she was killed.”

“Expect fibers from the seat of my rental car.”

“They’ve been informed about that. The point is, Ramos either took off Byron’s finger on-site, which I doubt, or else brought it with him. Forensics says it was still fresh. That tells me he had Byron somewhere nearby. The cops picked up a pimp who runs girls in and out of those vans. He’s being worked on. He says an undercover cop was out there last night and took some freebies from his girls, then took a piece out of his skull with a jack. I’ve got a feeling it wasn’t any cop any of us know about.”

“You always had good instincts, Tommy. Except you can drop the freebies part. Didn’t happen. Listen, I’m a little unclear about a few things. Cox. He wasn’t on duty last night. At least he wasn’t when he showed up at Margo’s. He was in his civvies.”

“What of it?”

“He told me he’s saturated in the hood. He knows all the players. Ramos. Donna Bia.”

“Of course. That’s how it works. Everyone knows everyone. My cops better damn well know the scum in their own territory. So what?”

“Nothing, I guess. I’m just not clear on all the logistics. Who found my car? Cox or the cops?”

“Cox is a cop. Or are you forgetting?”

“I still don’t see the point of his coming by Margo’s.”

“I explained that. You spent time with this Bia girl, and you didn’t call in a report.”

“I guess I’d never have made a very good cop after all,” I said. “Probably a good thing I bailed.”

“I’ve got to get going. What’s your plan?”

“To be honest, I don’t really have one. I was all hot for the suicide nun, but you just threw water on it.”

“Drop the nun,” he said again. “Focus on Ramos. Think with your feet.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything more-or I guess the mayor hasn’t-from Ramos?”

“We heard Philip Byron’s third severed finger last night inside that whore’s mouth. The mayor thinks that’s a pretty loud message. So do I.”

“This thing is going to collapse all around him, Tommy. You know that, don’t you? It’s going to collapse around both of you. It can’t stay contained. Cox said one thing last night that I agree with: Angel has lost it. Cox figures he’s popping and snorting and shooting anything he can lay his hands on; he’s probably given up sleep. He’s degenerating. Last week, in a funny way, he was a smooth cookie about all this. Now he’s slicing open his girlfriend’s throat and sticking severed fingers in her mouth? I wouldn’t hold much truck with this five o’clock thing if I were you. That was yesterday’s rant. This is a million dead brain cells later.”

“The minute I hear from forensics, we’re hitting the pavement. We’ve got the Bia murder now. There’s nothing we need to contain about a dead whore. I can flood the area with blue. We’re going to get this bastard by the end of the day if I have to fucking send tanks down the middle of Culver Boulevard.”

“I’m glad to hear you’ve got a plan,” I said.

“Look who’s talking.”

I PICKED UP A RENTAL CAR AT NATIONWIDE ON SEVENTY-SEVENTH Street, just east of Broadway. There was an accident on the approach to the Queensboro Bridge, so I took the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. I hate tunnels. By the time I’m halfway through them, I’ve forgotten how to breathe normally and I’m drenched in sweat. I don’t know why it’s not as severe in the subways, but it isn’t. Phyllis Scott has a theory or two about the tunnel thing, all Freudian, of course. Margo’s got her own theory. Even Jigs Dugan has weighed in on it. I’m so glad everybody gets to take a crack at it. Here’s my theory: I don’t like tunnels.

Charlie Burke was eating a sandwich in front of his television. He was watching a movie about a pair of drag queens driving across the Australian outback.

“Where’s Charlie Burke?” I cried. “What have you done with him?”

“Shut up. Do you want a sandwich?”

“Do I have to fix it myself?”

“Yeah. I just told the help they could spend the day out on my yacht. Sorry.”

“What’ve you got there?”

“Peanut butter.”

“And?”

“And bread.”

“Jesus, Charlie, it’s hell-in-a-handbasket time around here.”

I found some honey in the cabinet and showed him what a more complete sandwich looks like. I asked if he was hell-bent on seeing how things worked out for the Australian drag queens or whether he could spare a few minutes to maybe help me track down a cold-blooded killer and save untold numbers of lives.

“It’s your call, Pops,” I said. “I know how people’s priorities change as they get older.”

Charlie picked up the remote and killed the TV. He asked me to fetch him a beer from the refrigerator and to get one for myself if I wanted. I passed.

“Full alert, eh?”

“Something like that.”

I took a seat on the couch and laid out for him everything I knew to that point concerning Angel Ramos. I gave him all the pieces. We slipped right into our old shorthand. He asked a few questions along the way, all of them good. I had him completely up to speed by the time he’d finished his beer.

“You’re talking fast,” he noted, setting aside the empty.

“Philip Byron’s only got five fingers, two thumbs, and maybe five hours left.”

“I’d be worrying bigger than Philip Byron if I were you.”

“I am, trust me.”

Charlie wheeled himself over to the window and stared out. Less than a minute later, he wheeled back around to face me. “The question. What’s a cop from the embattled Ninety-fifth doing all the way in Manhattan working the parade and getting gunned down by a lowlife from the same Ninety-fifth?”

“Kevin McNally?”

“Uh-huh. You’re figuring Diaz was working as partner with Angel Ramos, right? So Ramos has planted him out there at the parade with a Beretta in his belt. Officer McNally gets shot. That’s a Fort Pete shoot-out on the streets of Manhattan. Coincidence?”

“You hate coincidence.”

“I surely do.”

“I had this same notion last night, right before I went to see Tommy Carroll,” I said. “I haven’t had the time to even think about it.”

“So think about it.”

“What are you saying, that McNally was actually the target of the Thanksgiving Day shooting?”

“He got hit. We know that much.”

“What about Rebecca Gilpin? I definitely saw Diaz take aim at her.”