Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

“I hear people talking.”

“Diaz was shot right over there. In the Municipal Building. That’s where I was taken, too. Carroll floated a half-baked story that they were simply protecting the cop killer from the cops until things cooled down. The truth is, the mayor’s been dancing with a blackmailer. He called a bluff, and Diaz shot up the parade. Carroll and Leavitt wanted to make sure Diaz didn’t start singing about how Leavitt had blown it big-time. I figured when Diaz got wasted in the Municipal Building, it was a combination cop-killer-revenge and shutting-up-the-blackmailer, all with one easy bullet. Remy, the guy was handcuffed to a goddamn table. Supposedly, he pulled an ankle piece that Cox missed on arrest, and before he could shoot, Cox blew him away. But now… ” I trailed off.

“Now what?”

“Now I don’t know what to think. I don’t even know which lie to doubt.”

“You’re thinking Cox set up his partner, then swung by the Municipal Building to silence Diaz.”

I threw up my hands. “I’m just one little man. What the hell do I know?”

Sanchez took a sip of his coffee. As he did, his eyes moved around. When he spoke, his volume had dropped by half. “I’m not telling you any of this, okay? That’s straight?”

“I’m not even here,” I said.

“Pearson and Cash. Bad apples. Word was that Cash had flipped. Or maybe just Pearson stank and Cash was straight all along. You hear both versions. I.A. was working him to hook some of the others. Don’t quote me on this-don’t quote me on any of this-but supposedly, Cash was wearing a wire when he was killed.”

“A wire. Was he trying to hook Pearson?”

“I don’t know. Could be.”

“Cash was the one who was shot, right? Then it was Pearson who ate his gun?”

“Right.”

“So maybe Pearson found out his partner was wearing the wire, and he took him out.”

“A version of that is the one going around,” Sanchez said. “It’s nice and clean.”

“You don’t buy it.”

“You tell me. If Pearson is crooked and he catches his partner trying to trap him and he kills him, is that the kind of guy who turns right around and discovers remorse? I don’t think so.”

My heart sailed over a speed bump. “So then someone killed Pearson and made it look like a suicide.”

“Or killed both of them and then set things up to look like that.”

That was one of Charlie’s theories. It sounded just as plausible coming out of Sanchez’s mouth. Maybe even a little more so.

Sanchez watched me as I processed what he was telling me. A thought occurred to me. Sanchez knew the thought already. He’d been waiting for me to have it.

“The wire,” he said.

“What happened to it? If Cash was wearing a wire, it should have recorded the whole thing.”

“That’s right. It should have.”

“But?”

“It’s missing.”

“The wire is missing?”

Sanchez finished off his coffee. “No one wants the papers to get ahold of that information. Not one word about Cash wearing a wire. If I see it tomorrow… Well, you don’t want me to see it tomorrow.”

“You won’t. Not from me. Jesus, Remy. So whoever killed Cash and Pearson took the wire.”

“That’s how it looks.”

I looked over at the Woolworth Building. My gaze drifted south, to the less descript building where Paul Scott worked. I wondered if I had done the right thing in there. My gut told me that Paul had told me the truth, that he wasn’t sleeping with Annette Hartman. He was being her hero. Harlan Scott’s son to the rescue. I knew plenty about that myself. My gut also told me that damsels and their heroes-even paltry ones-have a way of mixing it up at some point if they’re not careful. Neither Paul nor Annette Hartman struck me as being the careful type. You could see it in their lonely eyes. Put another way, they both seemed susceptible to the easy mistakes. So maybe I had done the right thing. At least now they were both on notice. They both knew that the world was watching. So, okay. A good little day’s work after all.

I looked over at Sanchez.

“Captain, it was nice not having this conversation with you.”

IT WAS 3:25 WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY CAR. I HAD A PARKING TICKET tucked under the wiper. A hundred dollars. This city doesn’t tiptoe around when it comes to passive revenue streams. I got into the car and did an illegal U-turn and took a left onto Pearl Street. At Canal Street I waited at a red light, catty-corner from the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. The elaborate bridge entrance has always reminded me of the Brandenburg Gate. I’m sure that if I ever got over to my forefather’s homeland and saw the real thing, I’d stop making the comparison. But I have no such plans, so I think the illusion’s secure.

It was 3:42 as I headed up Bowery. I approached Delancey, and a huge green ball bounded in front of the car followed closely by a little Chinese boy with his arms outstretched. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting him. A woman-his mother, I assume-jumped from the curb and grabbed the boy by his collar and nearly jerked him off his feet. Her screeching slashed the air like razors. She jerked the boy in my direction and shook him violently. His moon face showed nothing. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to make him apologize to me, or if I was getting read part of the riot act myself. The ball had continued untouched across the street and come to rest next to a newspaper box. My phone rang. The woman continued to rattle the boy as I answered the phone.

The caller was Bill from the Columbia University A.A. meeting. The minute I mentioned the name Margaret King, he groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

“I was wondering if I could talk to you about her,” I said.

There was a long silence.

“Well… okay. I guess.”

The rain had started. Big fat drops splattered on my windshield. Loose newspapers in the street leaped to life in the gusty wind. I turned off Bowery. Hit the FDR Drive, headed north.

No traffic problems.

3:51.

I EXPECTED A MAN, BUT BILL WAS A BOY. A STUDENT. HE TOLD ME HE was nineteen, a sophomore at Columbia, studying political science. He envisioned a future for himself that included the United Nations. He told me that he had gone on a tour of the United Nations Building when he was nine years old, and the memory of the place had never left his system. He was lanky, five-eleven, with a not unpleasant strong-boned face, slightly soulful, slightly sad brown eyes and a loose awning of blond hair. We met at a place called the Underground, directly across from Cannon’s. It used to be a bookstore, it used to sell crystals, it used to sell used CDs, it used to house the offices of a community weekly. Typical New York City pedigree. Now it was a coffeehouse, comedy club and college hangout. Students were draped here and there on various pieces of ratty furniture as if placed just so by a meticulous set designer. Bill and I sat across from each other at a small table. Someone had carved CHE SUCKS on my side of the table. Radical Republicanism.

Bill was upset with Margaret King, even a full month and a half after her suicide. She had deceived him. She had deceived everyone at the Columbia meeting. She hadn’t told anyone that she was a nun. Bill found out only when the TV and the newspapers brought out their “Sister Suicide” stories. He described for me the shock, disbelief and anger he had to balance with his grief, and he said he wasn’t yet sure which was going to come out on top. He was more direct than I would have expected from a nineteen-year-old. I suspected the experience of standing up in front of a group of people in a church basement and reliving your soul’s lowest moments can do that. I didn’t ask, but I learned anyway that Bill had been going to A.A. meetings since his junior year in high school. In his admirably frank manner, he told me that discovering his problem and beginning his cure at such an early age had made him feel older than he actually was.