Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

Sanchez added an extra matter that I had already figured out by then. According to Cox, his instructions as of the morning I went up to Riverdale and spoke with Sister Natividad had been to take me out as well. Carroll could see that I was beginning to deduce that Margaret King was somehow pivotal. He feared that I’d uncover why Leavitt was being blackmailed and, eventually, who was behind it. I suppose it’s nice to know that the commissioner thought so highly of my skills.

It was Charlie who explained to me that when Carroll showed up at the house, the visit had been presented as a general query as to where I was in my investigation. As Carroll had said, he knew I’d be sharing whatever I was learning with Charlie. If it appeared that I had already shared too much, Carroll would decide how to proceed with Charlie. When Margo stumbled onto the scene with Donna Bia’s cell phone, Carroll’s dilemma doubled. According to Margo, it was when Carroll saw me on television from Pier 17-alive-that he ordered her at gunpoint to call me. No fool, Tommy. He knew I’d come flying.

SAY WHAT YOU WILL ABOUT WOMEN TAKING FOREVER TO GET DRESSED to go out; Shirley Malone wasn’t issued that chip. I dropped her off in front of her building, and by the time I’d located a parking spot two blocks away and made my way back to her place, she was waiting at the curb looking like the widow Jackie Kennedy herself. Well, as skinny, anyway. I made her go back inside and take off the veil. There are a lot of good things I can say about the woman, but you do have to keep an eye on her. It’s just her temperament that she has a tendency to want to upstage.

My mother’s apartment is located on Forty-eighth Street, a few doors in from Eleventh. We walked over to the Church of the Sacred Heart on Fifty-first near Tenth. There was already a large crowd milling about outside the church. As many were onlookers and press as were actually there for Tommy Carroll’s funeral service. My mother had her arm looped through mine, and I felt it stiffen when she spotted Phyllis Scott emerging from a limo, followed by her son, Paul.

Shirley muttered, “Brunhilde and the pussycat.” She stopped and produced a mirror and took a few pokes at her makeup. Phyllis and Paul made their way into the church without seeing us.

“I’m going to park you inside,” I said. “I’ve got a little business to attend to.”

“What sort of business?”

“Man stuff.”

“Can I watch?”

I got her settled into a pew on the aisle about halfway down. Tommy’s flag-draped casket was already positioned in the front of the church. The place was abuzz with low murmuring. My mother crossed herself and crawled onto the prayer bench. I noticed that there was a run going up the back of one of her stockings.

I continued to the front of the church and paused in front of Tommy’s casket for as long as I could manage. Just how many police commissioner memorials is a person expected to attend in one lifetime? I moved over to the front pew and spent a few minutes with Betsy Carroll. She was holding up well enough.

“Bastard went out with his boots on,” she said to me in a soft hoarse voice.

The press had been lavishing praise on the life and career of Tommy Carroll over the past several days. The impending ravages of his inoperable cancer were the explanation so far as to why the police commissioner had taken his own life. The smarter of the reporters sensed that there was a larger story to be told. I doubted they had any clue as to exactly how large. Soon enough they would.

“We’ll get him into the ground,” I said to Betsy. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a short-lived peace.”

She understood. Her husband’s pathetically desperate hopes of going out with a clean legacy weren’t going to be realized.

“He panicked,” she said. “Big strong man like that. But in the end, he panicked.”

I said nothing. She was right. Pride and fear. As far as I was concerned, making things right by Margaret King was simply how Tommy Carroll had attempted to justify his actions. Possibly in his own mind, he had believed in those motives. Maybe he had truly convinced himself. But ultimately, it was his determination not to allow Martin Leavitt to set the terms of his final public moment that had stuck in his craw. That was clear from the night I had seen him at home. That was what he couldn’t stomach, and it was what had brought him to his poisonous decisions.

Betsy looked past me at her husband’s casket. “What about that other thing?”

“I’m going to check on that right now,” I said. “We’re doing our best.”

“I know Tommy doesn’t deserve it, but I still hope-”

I cut her off. “We’ll just have to see.”

As I headed to the front of the church, I spotted my half sister. Elizabeth was crouched down in the aisle, talking with my mother.

Sanchez and I met outside the church. As planned. As I approached him, he gave a nod. “It’s done. We’re ready to roll.”

As if on cue, there was a burping of police sirens and a black limousine was escorted to the open spot cordoned off by traffic cones directly in front of the church. The first to get out of the back was the mayor. He blinked a smile at the crowd, then turned to help Rebecca Gilpin make her way out of the car. Her maneuvering was made a little difficult on account of her crutches. The crutches were a deep maroon, matching the large clip half buried in her hair. The actress gave her high-wattage smile, then seemed to remember where she was and settled her features into pleasant repose.

Sanchez took a breath. “Here goes.”

Before he had taken two steps, a figure came out of the crowd and planted herself in front of the couple. It was Tommy Carroll’s assistant, Stacy. She said nothing. She simply stood there, her arms crossed loosely, and gave the mayor a withering look. Leavitt was clearly taken aback for several seconds, then found his footing.

“Um, Rebecca, I’d like you to meet Stacy…” He hesitated on the last name. “Kendall. Stacy worked very closely with Tommy. Stacy, this is-”

She cut him off. “I know who she is.” Her normally monotonous voice wavered. “Does she know who I am?”

Leavitt’s mouth opened, but for once there were no ready words.

Rebecca smiled sweetly. “Well, who are you, dear?”

Stacy’s answer came in a hiss. “ I’m you .” She glared at Leavitt. “Except I guess I’m stupider.”

Rebecca turned to Leavitt. “What?” Leavitt’s face was nearly the color of the crutches. The sweet smile had drained from the actress’s face.

Leavitt sputtered. “S-she’s upset.”

Rebecca gave him a withering look of her own. Stacy glanced over at Sanchez. Something in her eyes told me. She knew already. Friends in the right places. Sanchez came forward. As far as I could remember, this was the first time I’d ever seen an arrest come as a rescue.

“Mr. Mayor?” said Sanchez. “I need to see you for a moment.”

Leavitt’s response came out angrily. “What is it?”

“Sir? I think in private would be better.” Sanchez tapped his fingers against his lapel.

Leavitt still hadn’t caught on. “What is it, Captain?”

Sanchez kept a low, steady voice. “It’s a warrant, sir. For your arrest. Multiple counts.”

“My- I’m giving Commissioner Carroll’s eulogy, Captain.”

My cue. I stepped closer. “Actually, Mrs. Carroll says she would prefer it if you didn’t,” I said. “Sir.”

The mayor grew bug-eyed. He was staring at Remy Sanchez’s lapel. Maybe he could see the slight bulge of the warrant. “But… but it’s been arranged.”

“It’s been unarranged,” I said. “It’s what the widow prefers. Tommy will receive a perfectly fine send-off, nothing to worry about.” Lord help me, I couldn’t keep the shit-eating grin off my face. “Sir.”