Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"He's gonna leave a package for me at the receptionist's desk?"

"Stop being so mean," she said. "He wants to talk to you— what's so strange about that?"

"Which means I got to call him, make an appointment, all that, right?"

"Well, I guess…"

"Guess again, sister. If you think I'm gonna work this job for you on spec, you need therapy. I work the same way Fortunato does. You know how it goes: money in front, all cash, no big bills. And no refunds."

"That's okay. I mean— "

"Here's what I mean," I told her quietly. "I already started this thing. And I still haven't seen any money. I'm not gonna spend a week chasing this lawyer. Call him. Tell him I'll see him today. Anytime he wants. But today , understand? I don't get the money today, I'm out of this."

"Okay, okay, okay ," she spit out rapid–fire. "I'll call him. You'll get the money today, I promise."

"Not the money," I reminded her. " My money."

"Fine," she said with a sniff, taking her hand off my forearm. "Give me an hour. I'll leave you a message.

"See you around," I told her. I walked away, leaving her standing there. When I got as far as Worth Street, a pair of Chinese kids in matching red silk shirts under fingertip–length black leather jackets nodded an "okay" at me. I nodded back to show them I understood— I hadn't been followed.

I went over to my office, patted Pansy for a minute, opened the back door so she could get to her roof. Then I spread the contents of Belinda's envelope out on my desk. Everything was on that cheap flimsy paper they use in government copiers. Nothing but DD5s, the Complaint Follow–up form they use to keep track of investigations. Three women. Three bodies. All cut to pieces, first stabbed to immobilize them, then sliced for fun. Sex crimes for sure, every one of the women razor–raped. The report was in Cop–Speak: "On the above date, the undersigned Detective Oscar Wandell, Sh#99771 of the Manhattan Homicide Squad, entered the premises known as 1188 University Place Apt 9B at approx. 09:45 hours…" Whoever prepared it had just X–ed out any typos he saw— cops don't use Wite–Out.

All the homicides were south of Midtown, west of Fifth. All inside the victims' apartments. Somebody they knew? Bar pickups? No way to tell. All the victims were white. The youngest was twenty–nine, the oldest thirty–six. The killer was working a narrow band— maybe they were all targets of opportunity?

I took a yellow legal pad from the desk, started working on a chart. The dates synched with what Belinda had said: One of the murders— the woman on University Place— went down before Piersall had been popped over in Jersey. The other two came while he was being held without bail. No indication that the cops had linked the crimes in any way.

I went back to the different reports. Some were more detailed than others. One detective had really done a job— even included a diagram of the apartment's floor plan, an outline to show where the body had been found, an inventory of the victim's medicine cabinet. I checked the signature box at the bottom— I couldn't make a name out of the scrawl. But next to it was a box for the detective's name to be typed.

Morales.

Fuck!

Being in a box is bad enough— it turns to all kinds of holy hell when you don't know where the walls are. Or what they're made of. I folded up the reports, stuck them in my pocket and split.

I hit the switch for the garage door, nosed the Plymouth out onto the street behind my building. Once I got the car rolling uptown, I hit the cellular, reaching out for Hauser.

"It's me," I said. "Now a good time?"

" Very good," he said. "Come on up."

I couldn't find an open meter, so I settled for an outdoor parking lot. The attendant looked at the Plymouth with distaste, but he gave me a claim ticket without a word.

I knocked on Hauser's office door— he doesn't have a bell or a buzzer. He opened it quick, a phone with a long cord in his hand. Hauser motioned me over to the couch, made a "just give me a minute" gesture and went back to his conversation.

"Of course it's sourced," he said into the receiver. "No way I'd write it otherwise."

He listened impatiently to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then he said, "Look, here's the deal. I'll let you see the stuff, but there's no way you can talk to my source. You want to do it that way…okay. If you don't, I'll just— "

Hauser listened again, this time nodding his head in satisfaction. "I'll be there," he said, hanging up the phone.

"Great–looking boys, aren't they?" he said to me, pointing to a framed color photograph on the end table next to the couch.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Yours?"

"All mine," he said, a broad smile on his face. "The big one's J.A., the other one's J.R. You want to hear something absolutely fucking incredible," he went on without taking a breath, cluing me to one of those stupidass cutesy–poo stories all parents tell…like it's a big deal if their kid smeared jam on the wall or something. But I wanted something from him, so…

"Run it," I said.

"Okay. Last night, I'm reading JA a bedtime story. 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears.' Now, he's heard this one before, see, but it's one of his favorites. You remember how it goes, right?"

"Sure," I said, to prevent him from telling it to me.

"Okay, when you get to the part about the Papa Bear saying, 'Someone's been sitting in my chair,' J.A. pops up and asks me, 'How would he know?' I was gonna brush him off, finish the damn story so he'd get to sleep, but then he pipes up again. 'It's a hard chair, Dad. See? in the picture? So you couldn't tell by looking , right? So how would the bear know ?' And it just knocked me out. You see it?"

"Yeah. The kid figured it out, right? How's a little girl gonna make a dent in a chair that holds a goddamned bear . That's amazing," I said, not lying now.

I guess a minute or two passed. Hauser was staring at my face. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," I told him, shaking my head to clear it, feeling wetness on my face. Thinking about Hauser's kid being a genius so early, how Hauser adored that kid, how he must have hugged him and kissed him and been proud of him. Thinking about another kid, a little kid who questioned what he was told. Thinking about the vicious slap in the face, the ugly curses. Thinking…Ah, fuck this! I didn't need Hauser poking around in my life. So I pointed at his kids' pictures, asked him, "What's all those initials stand for?"

"Same as mine— nothing."

"You wanted to name them after you, how come you didn't just call one of them Junior?"

"Jews don't do that," he told me in a serious tone. "You only name a child after someone who's dead."

"Okay, I kind of knew that, I think. But I thought only Southerners named their kids with initials."

"There's Jews in Atlanta." Hauser smiled. "Now, how about showing me what you got?"

I handed over the reports. Hauser put them on his desk, pulled a few sheets of paper from his wire basket, laid them side–by–side with what I gave him. I smoked a couple of cigarettes while Hauser browsed around in the paperwork.

"Nothing here," he said finally, looking up from the desk.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing that would support the idea that it's the same killer."

"The signature— ?"

"There is no goddamn 'signature,'" Hauser said. "It's not there. Take a look for yourself."

He shoved the sheaf of papers across the desk to me. I sat down to read, then stopped as soon as I saw AUTOPSY centered at the top of the first page. "How'd you— ?" I asked.

His answer was a shrug, just a hint of self–satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.