Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"It's not my kind of thing," I told her.

"There's money. Real money. George has a trust fund. He's got nothing to spend it on now."

"I'm not interested," I told her in a door–closing voice.

She sat back in her chair. Straightened her spine, took a breath. "Are you interested in what Morales is trying to set you up for?" she asked.

"I don't know any Morales," I shot back, lying with the natural smoothness of a man who learned it— had to learn it— when I was just a little kid.

"Yes you do," she said. "I know you do–and I know he's got plans…plans for you."

"Still doesn't ring a bell," I told her. "And what's in it for you, anyway?"

"An innocent man— "

"I look that pure fucking stupid to you?" I interrupted. "You want me to buy this 'justice' bullshit, you can tell your story walking."

She took a deep breath. My eyes never left her face. "It's…personal, okay?"

"I don't give discounts for personal, " I told her. "You don't want to tell me the truth, you take the risk, understand?"

"Just take a look," she said, leaning forward. "One look, okay? Let me show you what I've got. You'll get paid. Just for that, you'll get paid. And if you do it, win or lose, you'll have a friend on the force, how's that?"

A friend on the force— where had I heard that before?

"I'll ask around," I told her. "No promises. One week. A whole week. And I don't leave the city, understand? Just cover the old tracks down here. Costs you five grand. Say Yes or say No."

"Yes!" she breathed at me, so happy she almost popped right out of the kimono.

After Belinda left, I sat and smoked a sociable cigarette with Immaculata, waiting to hear where the lady cop went once she left the building. I wasn't worried about her marking the loft— I'd never be there again in life.

"What did you make of her?" I asked Mac. It wasn't a pass–the–time question— Immaculata had been a superb therapist for years…and a survival expert since the day she was born.

"There's something… coarse about her," Mac said. "I can't put my finger on it. Not yet, anyway— I'd have to see her a few more times."

"Coarse…?"

"Yes. That's the only word I can think of. When I…examined her, she acted…I don't know…flirtatious? When my finger was inside her, she…responded in some way.

"Maybe she's gay?"

"I don't think so. Even if she was, the circumstances were so clinical, you wouldn't think…It was more as though she was trying to test me in some way."

"She's a cop. You know how they always look for a weak spot— it's their nature."

"That wasn't it. I can't tell you more than what I said. It's too…muddled. But she has that one–note–off thing— you know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Something else. It may mean nothing, but…"

"What?"

"In the pocket of her jeans, she had a little flat metal box. Like aspirin used to come in, remember?"

"Sure. And…?"

"And inside the box, there was maybe three inches of clear Scotch tape. With a paper tab on the end. You know what that could be?"

"A fingerprint kit," I told Mac. "You never took the gloves off around her?"

"Never. And I never took my eyes off her either."

"Good."

"Are you going to— ?"

"I don't know yet," I lied, segueing into "How's Flower?" to get her off the subject.

"She is quite wonderful," Mac said formally. "She loves school, especially art— she draws all the time. She can imitate Max's chop perfectly."

"I know. I saw her do it once, when Max brought her over to the restaurant."

"Yes. Mama is already concerned about a proper match for her when she is old enough."

"That's jumping the gun a bit, isn't it?"

"Oh yes." She smiled. "But you know how Mama is— she thinks Flower will need a dowry ,can you imagine?"

"Sure. Mama thinks you can't get anywhere unless you pay your way. I guess she's not so wrong, when you think about it."

The phone in my pocket buzzed. I pulled the flap open, said "Go."

"The cop didn't make no stops." The Prof's voice. Belinda had gone straight back to where she'd started from, alone.

"Can I drive you back over to your place?" I asked Mac. "I'll stay awhile," she said. "There's another way out of here— through the basement. And I want to change first. If she has people around, they won't see anything."

"Thank you," I said, bowing slightly.

"You are my brother," she replied.

Halfway through talking to Belinda, I knew who I needed for this one. Morelli was off the set now. After years and years at ground zero, he'd finally hit it big. A hardcore reporter from the old school, his copy was always gold, and he's been covering the Mob for so long they probably ask him for advice. Anyway, he wrote a book and it caught fire. He's been on the Holy Coast for a while now, tending the harvest.

But a pro like Morelli doesn't move on until he's trained some new recruits. J. P. Hauser was his choice. I remember when Morelli first told me about him.

"I ask him, go over and see this guy, supposed to be an informant, staying in some rat–trap over in Times Square," Morelli told me. "This guy, his story is that he's got a bad ticker, so he wants to make his peace with God, give me all the inside dope on a muscle operation Ciapietro's crew is running out at the airport. So I tell J.P., get me everything, all right?" Morelli smiled, taking a sip of his drink. Years ago, it used to be Cutty Sark and Lucky Strikes. Now it's red wine and he doesn't smoke at all. What the hell, at least he doesn't drink mineral water and pay his bills over a modem.

"Okay, so, a few hours later, I get this frantic call from the informant. He's screaming blue murder. Said JP goes up there, tosses the place worse than any parole officer ever did. JP, he takes the serial number from this guy's clock radio, looks at the labels in his coat, checks his shoe size. Then he whips out one of those blood–pressure things…you know, the kind you slip over your finger? Wants to see if this guy's really got a bad heart, you ever hear anything like that? The kid doesn't just take notes, he's got a tape recorder. And another tape recorder in his pocket too, just in case. Makes the guy go over his story a dozen times, out of sequence, backwards, you know, the whole bit. The federales could take lessons from old JP I mean, the man takes it all. He's a fucking vacuum cleaner, you understand? He's gonna pull the dirt out until they pull his plug. I fucking love this kid."

I worked with Hauser myself a couple of times since Morelli split. Any twit with a street thesaurus and an active imagination can write a newspaper column— but Hauser, if he's got a God, it's The Facts. And I learned this much about him too: he's got a set on him so big that, if you added one more and painted them gold, you could hang them over a pawnshop.

Early on a Sunday morning, I figure Hauser's probably at home. He lives on Central Park West, somewhere in the Nineties. But he keeps a dump of an office in the garment district. Doesn't matter where he is— I know how his phone system works.

I drove up Eighth Avenue until I found a parking space a few blocks south of Port Authority. I slid in and punched the number into the cellular.

"You have reached the voice mail of J. P. Hauser," the tape said. "Leave a number and a time to call. I'll get back to you."

I waited for the beep, hit 333 on my phone, waited again. Another beep–tone. This time I hit 49. Waited again while the phone rang.

"Burke?" Hauser's voice came through.

"I got something," I told him. "Meet you…where?"

"How about my office? Give me half an…no, make it forty–five minutes, okay?"

"You got it," I said, and cut the connection.