Jeffery Deaver - Hell's Kitchen

Bailey continued. “She said she never thought anybody’d get hurt. She never wanted anybody to die. I believe her.”

“She confessed ?” Pellam whispered. He hawked hard and spit. Coughed for a moment, spit again. Struggled to catch his breath. “I want to see her, Louis.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Pellam said, “They threatened her. Or blackmailed her.” He nodded toward Lomax, standing at the curb, talking to his huge assistant. The fire marshal had overheard Pellam but he said nothing. Why should he? He had his pyro. He had the woman who hired him. Lomax seemed almost embarrassed for Pellam at his desperate words.

Wearily the old lawyer said, “John, there was no coercion.”

“The bank teller? When the money was withdrawn? Let’s find him.”

“The teller identified Ettie’s picture.”

“Did you try the Ella Fitzgerald trick?”

Bailey fell silent.

Pellam asked, “What did you find at City Hall?”

“About the tunnel?” Bailey shrugged. “Nothing. No recorded easements or leases for underground rights beneath Ettie’s building.”

“McKennah must’ve-”

“John, it’s over with.”

A blaring horn sounded across the street. Pellam wondered what it signified. The workers paid no attention. There were hundreds of them still on the job. Even at this hour.

“Let her do her time,” Bailey continued. “She’ll be safe. Medium-security prison. Protective seclusion.”

Which meant: solitary confinement. At least that’s what it meant at the Q – San Quentin – according to the California Department of Corrections. Solitary… the hardest time there is. People’s souls die in solitary even if their bodies survive.

“She’ll get out,” Bailey continued, “and it’ll all be over with.”

“Will it?” he asked. “She’s seventy-two. When will she be eligible for parole?”

“Eight years. Probably.”

“Jesus.”

“Pellam,” the lawyer said. “Why don’t you take some time off? Go on a vacation.”

Well, he was certainly going to be doing that – though involuntarily. West of Eighth would never be made now.

“Have you told her daughter?”

Bailey cocked his head. “Whose daughter?”

“Ettie’s… Why you looking at me that way?” Pelham asked.

“Ettie hasn’t heard from Elizabeth for years. She has no idea where the girl is.”

“No, she talked to her a few days ago. She’s in Miami.”

“Pellam…” Bailey rubbed his palms together slowly. “When Ettie’s mother died in the eighties Elizabeth stole the old woman’s jewelry and all of Ettie’s savings. She vanished, took off with some guy from Brooklyn. They were headed for Miami but nobody knows where they ended up. Ettie hasn’t heard from her since.”

“Ettie told me-”

“That Elizabeth owned a bed and breakfast? Or that she was managing a chain of restaurants?”

Pellam watched hard-hatted workers carrying four-by-eight sheets of drywall on their backs walk around to the back of the Tower. The Sheetrock bent up and down like wings. He said to Bailey, “That she was a real estate broker.”

“Oh. Ettie told that one too.”

“It wasn’t true?”

“I thought you knew. That’s why her motive – the insurance money – troubled me so much. Ettie came to me last year and wanted to hire a private eye to find Elizabeth. She thought she was somewhere in the United States but didn’t know where. I told her it could cost fifteen thousand, maybe more, for a search like that. She said she’d get the money. No matter what it took she was going to find her daughter.”

“So Elizabeth isn’t paying your bill?”

“My bill?” Bailey laughed gently. “I’m not charging Ettie for this. Of course not.”

Pellam massaged his stinging eyes. He was remembering the day he met Bailey, in the bar. His uptown branch.

“You sure you want to get involved in this?”

He’d thought the lawyer was simply warning him how dangerous the Kitchen was. But apparently there’d been more to his message; Bailey knew Ettie better than Pellam had guessed.

Pellam wandered to the site of Ettie’s building, looked over it. The land was nearly level. A battered pickup truck pulled to a stop at the curb and two men got out. They walked over to the small pile of rubble and pulled out a chunk of limestone cornice, a lion’s head. They dusted it off and together carted it back to the truck. It was probably on its way to an architectural relics shop downtown, where it’d be priced at a thousand bucks. The men looked over the site, saw nothing else of interest and drove off.

Bailey called, “Let it go, Pellam. Go on home. Let it go.”

The Eighth Avenue subway line offers no service for the time being, due to police action.

We are sorry for the inconvenience.

Riders are advised…

John Pellam considered waiting but like most passengers on the Metropolitan Transit Authority he knew that fate was the essential motorman of his journeys; he decided to walk downtown to a cross street where he could catch an Eastbound bus to his apartment.

He disembarked from the grimy subway car and climbed up the stairs of the station into the city.

West of Eighth Avenue, stores had closed and mesh gates covered windows.

Dusk was long past and the sky was filled with a false sunset – the radiance of city lights from river to river. This fiery canopy would last until dawn.

“Yo, honey how ’bout a date?”

West of Eighth, children had been put to bed. Men had eaten their hot meals and were sitting in their scruffy armchairs, still aching from the hard routine of their jobs at UPS or the Post Office or warehouses or restaurants. Or they were groggy from their hours upon hours in bars, where they’d squandered the day talking endlessly, arguing, laughing, wondering how love and purpose had eluded them so completely throughout their lives. Some of them were in those bars again now, having returned after an evening meal with a silent wife and noisy children.

In tiny apartments women washed plastic dishes and marshaled children and brooded about the cost of food and marveled with painful desire at the physiques and the clothing and the dilemmas of the people in TV shows.

It was a night like a hot stone but here the old buildings weren’t wired for air conditioners. The hum of fans filled most apartment and some not even that.

“I’m sick. I’m tryin’ to get a job. I am, man.”

West of Eighth, clusters of people sat on doorsteps. Dots of cigarettes moved to and from lips. Lights from passing cars reflected amber in quart beer bottles, which rang against the concrete stoops with ever-changing tones as their contents emptied. Conversation was just loud enough to rise above the rush of traffic on the West Side Highway, thousands of cars fleeing the city, even at this late hour.

“Give me quarter for some food. Got a cigarette. Have a good night anyway. God bless.”

In the windows of tenements lights flickered, the emanations of TV, and often the hue was not blue but the pale gray of black-and-white sets. Many windows were dark. In some there was only glaring light from a bare blub and a motionless head was framed in the window, looking out.

“You want rock, ice, meth, scag, sens, blow, you want you want you want? You want a lotto ticket, you got a quarter you got a dollar you want some pussy? Yo, I got AIDS, I homeless. Excuse me, sir. Gimme your motherfucking wallet…”

West of Eighth, young men loped down the street in their gangs. They were invincible. Here they’d live forever. Here bullets would pass through their lean bodies and leave their hearts intact. They glided along the sidewalk, carrying with them their own soundtrack.