Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"You're Burke?" he said by way of greeting.

"Yes."

Fortunato leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He didn't ask for identification, didn't offer to shake hands. He reached into one of the plastic stacked trays, extracted a white envelope, held it in his hand for a few seconds. Then he slid it across the slick surface toward me. I caught it, pocketed it without looking inside.

"You have any questions?" he asked.

"The way I understand it, this guy was dropped behind some DNA fingerprinting, right?"

"That was one of the factors," he said cautiously. "There were others."

"So what's his play on appeal? How do you get around that?"

"An appeal isn't usually about the evidence," he said smoothly. "It's about the law, not the facts. Let's say the police find the murder weapon in the trunk of a guy's car. But let's say it was a bad search— no warrant, no probable cause. They can't use it in court, understand?"

"Yeah, I do. But they wouldn't need a warrant to take a blood sample."

"It's all in how you look at the evidence," he said. "The DNA…Wait a minute, are you saying they got DNA samples from the New York case?"

"Well…yeah, I guess so. I mean, I knew they had it in Jersey, and I thought— "

"There was no DNA taken from the body on University Place," he said flatly.

"None at all? How could that be?"

"Look, maybe you don't have all the facts here," he said, ticking off the points on his fingers. "One, the DNA they got in Jersey was a tissue sample, understand? From fingernail scrapings— the woman scratched, she fought hard. There were fragments of skin under her nails. Two, the woman in New York, the one on University Place? Her fingernails were smooth, like she just had a manicure. Nothing under them at all. Three, there was no sperm in the body."

"You telling me they found different DNA in the other bodies?"

"There were three bodies," Fortunato said, ticking them off on his fingers, one–two–three. His manicure was perfect. "Three murders," he said. "And all of them in New York. And the assault, the one in Jersey— I already explained that one, right? The woman on University Place— there was no sperm— they never made a match. The other two— the other two murders, I mean— there was no sperm either."

"You sure that's right? No sperm at all? Sometimes, a guy isn't a secretor…"

"I know that," he said, looking up sharply. "No sperm, period— that's what they found. And they didn't find any in the other two, the ones that happened after he was in custody."

"So let's say he didn't do the last two— hell, that would make sense. He was inside, right? But there's no question about the first pair."

"One of them," Fortunato corrected. "The one that lived. That'll stand up, no question. But the woman on University Place, he may have been in her apartment, he may have fucked her a couple of times— hell, he admits all of that— but there's no real hard evidence that he killed her."

"Sounds like a dead loser to me," I said. "What's the point? Without proof that the ME pulled the red ribbon out of the other bodies— and you gotta admit, that sounds ridiculous— you got nothing."

Fortunato shrugged, watching my face. "Sometimes," he said, "you take a case as a favor. Even if it doesn't look good. You never know what can happen…"

"Okay," I said. It was like I'd thought— if Fortunato had a scheme, it didn't have anything to do with the law books.

He reached behind him to where a shelf was built in below the window line, brought out a small wood humidor. He reached inside, took out a long dark cigar. "You mind?" he asked.

I shook my head. Shook it again when he turned the humidor in my direction, offering me one, He clipped the end of the cigar with a little silver guillotine, flicked a wafer–thin lighter into flame. He made a ceremony out of it, rolling the cigar in his lips, making sure it was fully lit. He finally got it going to his satisfaction, leaned back in his chair.

"You're an interesting man," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"People talk," I told him. "I don't."

"I understand. You have a very strong reputation…in some circles."

"And your point is…?"

"My point is that this job, it doesn't have anything to do with family business. You following me?"

"Sure,"

"Julio used to speak well of you," he said. I could feel his eyes through the cigar smoke.

"Used to?"

"He's dead," Fortunato said. "You didn't know?"

"How would I know? Was it in the papers?"

"Just a little squib," he said. "Old man sitting on a bench just off the water by La Guardia. Watching the planes come in, it looked like. Only his neck was broken."

I gave out a short grunt of surprise, with a question mark at the end.

"The cops have it down as Unsolved," Fortunato answered. "They never made an arrest."

"You want me to look into it?" I asked, flat–faced.

"No, that's okay," he replied. "We know who did it."

"Then you're telling me because…?"

"I just thought you'd be interested. I know you were tight with the old man once."

"Inside I was. I didn't see much of him once I was out."

He nodded as if that made sense. "Your record…it's long, but it's old. You ever think of going for a Certificate of Release from Civil Disabilities?"

"What's that?"

"It's like a pardon. Not really a pardon…I mean, you still have your record, but you can do things you couldn't do before."

"Like what?"

"Well, you could vote. Open certain kinds of businesses…he said, the sly hint of suggestion in his voice.

Telling me he knew about me owning a piece of Frankie? "How much does it cost?" I asked him, no sign of real interest on my face.

"Well, that depends. Different lawyers charge different rates. You know that. Me, I could get it done. Guaranteed."

"How much?" I asked again.

"I could do it as a favor. No charge."

"That's too high a price," I told him.

He took another hit off the cigar, blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. "The offer's still open," he said. "You change your mind, let me know. Anytime."

"I'll do that," I told him.

On the way back to my office, I tried to put it together. Fortunato as much as told me he knew I was involved in Julio's murder. Was he threatening me, or offering me a way out?

I wasn't afraid of Fortunato. Inside his pretty office, he was strong and confident, but he was only a messenger— he couldn't deliver the payload. A mob lawyer might get involved with homicide for money, might even set it up, but he wouldn't do the work himself. Guys like that, they stay between the lines, trying to widen them by pushing from the inside.

But Julio…it was a long time ago. A family quarrel the newspapers called a Mob War. One side hired Wesley, and Wesley got it done, delivering the bodies like he always did. But then Julio's crew stiffed Wesley on the fee, and Wesley starting taking them out, one at a time. Julio, the old alligator, had been screaming for Wesley's blood— even promising me the earth if I could lure the ice–man into a trap. But it was Julio who got trapped…by a flame–haired witch named Strega who licked her lips as she watched him die.

What was Fortunato telling me? Wesley was a shooter— the best there ever was. But Julio had died of a broken neck. Just like one of those freaks in the Bronx house of beasts.

I got back to my car and headed downtown. I left the West Side Highway at Chambers Street, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge. I took the on–ramp before the span. It was the tail end of rush hour, but the bridge was clogged. I looked ahead, saw one of those orange signs: LEFT LANE ENDS 500 YARDS. I was in that lane, and I wasn't getting much play from the middle lane, so merging right wasn't all that easy. I didn't get worked up about it— I wasn't in a hurry.