Dancer in the Flames (30 page)

‘Chief Shaw could do that all by himself,’ Boots said. ‘All he has to do is arrest Mack Corcoran.’

The inspector’s demeanor underwent a rapid transformation, from gentle to fierce. ‘There’s a limit, detective. A line you’d be wise not to cross. If I choose to, I can make your life a living hell.’

Boots shrugged his shoulders. ‘What about LeGuin and Sutcliffe?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but the District Attorney is negotiating with both of them, and we’re reaching out to Arthur Farrahan’s attorney as well. Farrahan’s been suspended, by the way. As for Palermo, there’s blood evidence against him and he’s already been indicted, but we’re doing what we can.’ Najaz drew a breath before settling down. ‘Boots, you talk about arresting Corcoran as if that would solve your Jill Kelly problem. But even if Corcoran’s charged with murder, he’ll almost certainly be released on bail. At which point the game starts all over.’

B
oots limped into Galligan’s at six thirty to find the Yankee pre-game show running on a computer monitor. Derek Jeter was being interviewed by a Yankee announcer named Michael Kay. Asked to predict the likely outcome of a three-game series with the Boston Red Sox, Jeter recited a laundry list of injured Yankee players. For just a moment, Boots felt a predictable annoyance. He hated excuses, especially when they spilled from the mouths of millionaires. But then his interest vanished, here and gone. He had other things to worry about.

Boots gave Joaquin a hug before getting down to business. ‘Is Galligan here?’ he asked.

‘In his office.’

‘Is he stoned?’

‘I haven’t checked.’

Boots looked around the cluttered reception area. Nothing had changed. ‘Didn’t you say you were gonna remodel?’

Joaquin smiled. ‘I’m not a partner yet.’

‘But soon, right?’

‘Maybe.’

Boots shrugged. ‘I want to find somebody’s address,’ he told Joaquin. ‘A cop named Rick Bauer.’

‘Rick? Is that short for Richard?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, can you narrow the search area? Say from anywhere on the planet to the Western hemisphere. Bauer is a very common name. There are bound to be multiple Rick Bauers and Richard Bauers out there, not to mention R. Bauers.’

Boots grinned. ‘How about Thelonius Tolliver? I suspect there aren’t too many Thelonius Tollivers in the New York area. See if you can get me the number of his cellphone.’

Ten minutes later, Boots was on the line with the man himself. Normally polite, this time Boots started the conversation with a direct question. ‘Thelonius, when you were at Brooklyn North, did you ever run into a cop named Rick Bauer?’

Tolliver’s voice was as flat as it was cold. ‘I’m working. In case you’re interested.’

‘I just have a couple of questions. It won’t take a second.’ Boots paused before adding, ‘I’ve been shot at twice in the last five days.’

‘That was you?’

‘Me and Jill Kelly.’

‘Funny, but your name wasn’t mentioned when I watched the news tonight. Kelly’s either.’

‘Now you understand my problem. I tell ya, it doesn’t get any easier.’ Boots tried for a laugh, but didn’t quite get there. ‘But I’m not lookin’ to vent.’

‘Hallelujah.’

‘I was just wonderin’ if Rick is Bauer’s nickname, if maybe his real name is Richard Bauer.’

‘Richard Aloysius Bauer.’

‘Aloysius?’

‘Chris Parker was Bauer’s commanding officer. Whenever he wanted to speak to Bauer, he’d yell out, “Richard Aloysius, in my office.” The other narcs used to tease the kid about it. But I don’t see why you’re askin’ me these questions, Boots. I don’t understand why you’re askin’ me instead of your partner. The way I heard it, Bauer and Jill Kelly were close at one time.’

Boots shut his eyes. More bullshit, more deception. He thanked Tolliver, then hung up. ‘Look for Richard Aloysius Bauer,’ he told Joaquin. ‘Try the city first, then move out to the burbs.’

Galligan was peacefully adrift, his thoughts rolling gently through his mind, playful as otters in a snow bank. He was dreaming of a mega-business created by Joaquin Rivera, of revenues so great that he, Tommy Galligan, could afford to pass the remainder of his life in a drug-induced haze. Boots Littlewood’s sudden appearance put the lie to that fantasy. Galligan wasn’t gaining a partner. He was marrying into the mob.

‘I don’t have a lot of time,’ Boots said. ‘You’ve done some work for me on a cop named Mack Corcoran. Corcoran’s in the wind and I want you to find him.’

‘And how would I do that?’

‘I don’t care, as long as Jackie’s not involved.’ Boots took out a roll of bills, counted off two hundred dollars, laid the money on Galligan’s desk. ‘This’ll get you started.’

‘And that’s it?’

In the short term, as both men knew, the best way to find Corcoran was through his credit cards, assuming he was using his cards. This was a service Galligan had performed many times in the past and his conscience wasn’t overly troubled by the request. What galled him was a lecture delivered by Joaquin only a few days before. The costs of violating state and federal law, Joaquin had insisted, far outweighed any benefits. Once he became a partner, there would be no more illegal searches.

Galligan finally picked up the money and returned it to Boots. ‘Risk my license to help you? Keep the kid out of it? Well, I don’t want your money. What I want to know is that you’re gonna be there when I need a favor.’

‘Absolutely.’ Boots put the cash away and stuck out his hand, thinking how much better he liked Galligan when the man was stoned. ‘Any time.’

The Yankee game was playing on the radio when Boots slid into the passenger seat of Jill’s midnight-green Chrysler 300. He closed the door and grinned.

‘Don’t tell you’re a fan,’ he said.

‘I turned the game on for you, Boots.’

‘You were that sure I’d show up?’

‘I just didn’t want to be surprised again.’

The Chrysler was parked on Twelfth Avenue in the Queens neighborhood of College Point, a few cars ahead of the Dodge that Boots was forced to rent after his own car was towed to an impound yard in Long Island City.

‘Is that Bauer’s place?’ Boots gestured to a four-story apartment building.

Jill nodded. ‘Third floor, in the rear. He’s not home.’

‘How do you know?’

‘When I couldn’t locate his car, I knocked on his door.’

Boots smiled. He could easily imagine Jill pounding away. Bauer was an avenue to Mack Corcoran.

‘You and Rick, I hear you’re acquainted.’

Jill laughed out loud, as Boots had feared she might. ‘Rick had the good looks and the toned body,’ she explained, ‘but he didn’t know anything about sex. When the chips were down, he was too weak.’ She looked at Boots and winked. ‘One on one, I know I can take him.’

‘You know this from a single encounter?’

‘More like three-quarters.’

With nothing to add, Boots watched the leaves of an ancient linden dance through the pink light cast by a streetlamp. He felt entirely comfortable in Jill’s car, entirely at home. As if he didn’t have a care in the world.

The Yankee game concluded a few minutes later with the Yanks on the wrong end of a five–one score. Jill shut off the radio and lit a cigarette. ‘Stakeouts,’ she informed Boots, ‘drive me crazy.’

Boots moved his seat back as far as it would go. He liked stakeouts, the way he liked to drive slowly. This was especially true on warm nights when the streets were so quiet you could hear your partner breathing. This section of College Point was entirely residential, mostly two-family homes with a scattering of featureless apartment buildings like the one Bauer lived in. Resolutely middle-class, the Point closed down early during the week. Boots and Jill were undisturbed except for the occasional sideways glance from a citizen walking the family pooch.

For the next two hours, until shortly after midnight, they watched the neighborhood go to bed. Lights went out in living rooms and kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms. A full moon, veiled by thin clouds, rose until it stood almost directly overhead. At the far corner, a family of raccoons scuttled across the road and began to rummage in a garbage pail. Cars turned on to the street from time to time, coming from either direction. Rick Bauer’s was not among them.

‘Bauer’s in the wind,’ Jill finally said. It was after midnight by then.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Rick showed his true colors this afternoon.’ Jill drew on her cigarette, flicked the ash out the window. ‘See, Rick was kneeling down when he took the first shot. I didn’t see it coming and it was pure luck that I moved when I did. But once I was on the sidewalk, Rick couldn’t get off a second shot without exposing himself. Exposing yourself entails a measure of risk, true, but Rick still had every advantage. He had a scoped rifle. I had a handgun. He was on a roof. I was on the ground. He was stationary. I was running. But he lacked the courage to stand upright for three seconds. He rushed the shot, missed, then ran away. For my money, he’s still running.’

Boots responded by wrapping his hand around Jill’s head and pulling her mouth to his. His spirits had lifted the minute he saw her sitting behind the wheel of the Chrysler. ‘You remember what you told Parker?’ he asked. ‘About turnin’ a trick in the back seat of a car?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, I was wonderin’ if there wasn’t some kernel of truth to your little ploy, if maybe this was a fantasy that you’ve had, but never acted out.’

‘Because I never found the right partner?’

‘Exactly.’

Jill stared at Boots for a few seconds. ‘And how much would you pay for me? What’s my price?’

‘Fifty dollars.’

‘That’s it?’

‘C’mon, Jill, gimme a break. We’re talkin’ street whore, not call girl.’

They haggled briefly before reaching an agreement which, if not entirely specific, at least established the parameters. Then Jill started the car and put it in gear.

‘Money first, right?’ She held out her hand. ‘Isn’t that the way it works?’

‘Absolutely.’

Boots let Jill get halfway down the block before he unbuckled her belt, then slid her pants and panties down over her hips. As he wet his finger and began to stroke her, gently at first, then more insistently, he pressed his lips to the soft hollow of her temple.

Jill’s Chrysler was muscle-car all the way, its 340 horsepower able to propel its 4,000 pounds from zero to sixty in under seven seconds. Even with the driver undistracted, handling the sedan required a fair degree of concentration. As it was, the car jerked forward, tires chirping, then slowed abruptly, what with Jill’s hips moving one way and her foot another. She didn’t complain, though. She simply continued on until she found a quiet spot near Powell’s Cove on the East River. Then she cut off the ignition and the lights.

‘How do you want it?’ she asked.

Boots groaned as her fingers encircled his swollen cock. ‘Get in the back,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’

I
t was déjà vu all over again, waking in Jill’s bed, Jill standing over him, saying, ‘Get up.’

Without truly committing himself, Boots rolled on to his back. ‘Your mother again?’

‘I sent my mother to her sister’s house in Yonkers.’

‘So, what’s doin’?’

‘There’s something you need to see.’

Intrigued, Boots fumbled into his clothes, made a quick trip to the bathroom, then followed Jill upstairs to a room at the back of the house. Ahead of him, early morning light poured through a double-hung window to flood three long shelves mounted on the opposite wall. The shelves were crowded with medals, ribbons and loving cups, dozens of them. Detective Kelly’s glittering trophies.

Boots picked up a faded blue and gold ribbon. First place in a handgun competition open to children twelve years old and younger. He picked up another. Second place in a simulated combat competition.

‘How many girls competed for this ribbon?’

‘One.’

Still curious, Boots walked to the center of the exhibit, to a simple plaque.

DEADWOOD DAYS

QUICK-DRAW COMPETITION

BEST TIME – WOMAN’S DIVISION

JILL KELLY

.345

‘What is that?’ Boots pointed to the figure at the bottom.

‘That’s the time, point-three-four-five seconds.’

‘A third of a second? That’s what you’re saying?’ Boots continued before Jill could answer. ‘Tell me, Jill, what did you actually do in a third of second?’

‘Draw, fire, cock the weapon and hit a four-inch target ten feet away. But you should consider, the fastest man did it in a quarter of a second.’

Boots sighed. ‘What do you want to show me?’

Jill pointed a remote control at a TiVo resting next to a small TV. She turned it on, backed it up, finally set it rolling forward.

Boots felt his pulse jump. The man behind the podium was Chief of Detectives Michael Shaw. To his left, Internal Affairs Chief Mario Polanco stood with his hands folded at the waist. Shaw, his paper-smooth cheeks leached of all color by the outdoor light, cleared his throat twice before announcing the arrests of Malcolm Sutcliffe and Elijah LeGuin for the attempted murder of Detective Jill Kelly.

‘The case,’ he announced, ‘is still before the grand jury and further indictments are being sought. The principal suspects are police officers.’

With that, IAB Chief Mario Polanco approached the podium. Polanco’s complexion was very sallow, almost jaundiced. His dark eyes, veiled by even darker brows, had the glitter of a zealot’s, while a monk’s fringe of curly hair stood away from his skull like the rim of a helmet. Boots couldn’t imagine Polanco in the Commissioner’s office. And how the Chief had risen as far as he had was likewise unfathomable.

After a brief review of the facts already stated by Michael Shaw, Polanco delivered a fiery sermon on the evils of corruption. Zero tolerance for corruption was, and would always be, he told the reporters, the official policy of the NYPD.

Boots stopped listening after a few sentences. The speech was boilerplate, the only important detail Polanco’s refusal to name the unindicted suspects. Out of respect for their constitutional rights, or so he piously claimed. But all knew that a subsequent news conference, one that named names, would be covered by every media outlet in the city.