Mitchell Smith (38 page)

“That’s him. But probably not recent. Birnbaum, s an’ Walker’s prints were on a couple of wine glasses.” He mimed turning on a faucet, swirled his fingers. `-They had some wine, washed the glasses . . . an’

put’em away.

Didn’t use the washin’ machine.”

“Who else . . . ?”

“The super-Correa, an’ two sets no ID-those were on the back of the refrigerator . . . living-room couch.

Probably movin’ guys.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. -That’s it, but they still got to get a result for prints on the money.”

“Mine’ll be on it.”

“Note on there, on the report. -Apartment had to take at least a one-hour wipe, get it that clean.”

“That motherfucker was walking around dusting, while Sally was dying in there. . . .” She had another cramp, but this one wasn’t so bad.

“That’s probably right.”

“God . . . Tommy . . . I told her daughter we’d get whoever did it. -Jesus, I’d hate for that fucker to walk away from this. . . !”

Nardone patted her shoulder. “Come on, come on . . .

it’ll just take us more time, that’s all. We don’t have a team . . .

it’ll take us more time. -No statute of limitations on this.”

“Excuse me-am I interrupting something?” The tall Stakeout man. He was holding a black porkpie hat in his left hand. “I know you, don’t I?” he said to Nardone.

“-I know you from Sacred Heart.”

“That’s right,” Nardone said.

“Phil Shea.” He put out his hand to shake.

“Tom Nardone.”

“Right.” Shea was very tall-taller than Classman had been-and appeared to stoop slightly to minimize it. He had a raw, weather-burned face, like a farmer’s. The Stakeout people usually hunted and fished, went out on cold, dark winter mornings to duck blinds on Long Island to wait for geese flying in high from the Arctic. Years of that had left weather marks on his face. He had a country person’s pale eyes, as well.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothin’ can’t wait,” Nardone said.

The Stakeout man looked at Ellie.

“This is Detective Klein,” Nardone said, and Shea held out his hand to shake again. He had a big, longfingered hand, and held Ellie’s very lightly, as if he might hurt her. She saw him glance down at her left hand for a wedding ring.

“Phil Shea,” he said. “I’m very sorry about you people losing your guy like this. He must have been all right, put a slug in that fucker, anyway. -Excuse me, that guy.”

“He was a good officer,” Ellie said, “-he was a very nice man.”

“Took care of his mother, didn’t he?” Shea said.

“That’s right.”

“Nice of you to come over,” Nardone said.

“Well,” the Stakeout man said, “I came over to tell you we were sorry you lost your man. -And … I know it’s a bad time”-he looked down at Ellie from a considerable height-“I also wanted to ask this officer …

if she’s free, you know … if she’d care to have dinner with me some evening. Some evening she’s off duty.”

Nardone laughed. “Man,” he said, “-if you don’t have some nerve. The nerve of this guy! You got some nerve, buddy. We’re at a friggin’

funeral to start with-an’ how do you know she’s not with me. How do you know we don’t have something’ going’?”

Shea smiled. ” ‘Cause I know you’re a happy married man, for one thing.

You got a wife and a little girl right? I saw the three of you with Father-right? And for another thing, I wouldn’t care. anyway.” He looked at Ellie. “I’m asking you to dinner, miss. -And this is not something I planned, let me tell you. But I saw you, and I couldn’t not come over and ask could I see you again.”

“Do you believe this?” Nardone said.

“No,” Ellie said. “I think you’re a wise guy, Mr. Shea.

“No,” Shea said. “-I’m not. I’m just the only man out here with eyes in his head.”

“This is embarrassin’,” Nardone said. “-We got an Irish guy making’

love, here. It’s a first.”

Shea laughed. “I guess I’m not much of a ]over boy,” he said to Ellie.

“Please, come out and have dinner with me, and if you don’t like it, I swear I’ll never bother you again.”

“I can’t-really,” Ellie said. “I just don’t have the time.”

“Think again. -I’m a widower; I’m fair game.”

“Jesus,” Nardone said. “-Will you get serious? We got a friggin’funeral here.”

“Say yes,” Shea said.

“Maybe,” Ellie said. “-We really are very busy right now.

“O.K.,” Shea said. “I’ll call you downtown, and we’ll have dinner some night this week-whenever you have an hour free. You have to eat.”

“Oh … all right.”

“We have a date?”

“I suppose so.”

“Really bad taste,” Nardone said. “This is really what I call bad taste-an Irish guy, supposed to be a good Catholic, making’ this kind of pass in a cemetery.”

“O.K., Tommy,” Ellie said, “—quit it.”

“I’ll be calling you,” Shea said to Ellie, and bent and kissed her on the cheek as if he knew her. “Take it easy,” he said to Nardone, and walked away, swinging his porkpie hat in his hand.

The mayor had just finished his speech. The loudspeaker was humming a single high thin note.

“What in the world was that all about?” Ellie said, pleased…. It was such an odd thing to have happened.

“Guess he liked your looks,” Nardone said. “-I don’t know why he came over.”

“Is he one of your friends, Tommy? Is this something did you and Connie put him up to this?”

“No, no.” Nardone shook his head and one hand.

‘-No way. I don’t know anything’ about that guy.”

“Who is he-does he usually pull stuff like this?”

“Oh I don’t know the guy except to see him sometimes in church. The guy’s on Stakeout, and he’s a lieutenant; that’s all I know.”

“He’s got a lot of nerve.”

“Probably been drinkin’,” Nardone said. `-Those Irish guys talk to a lady-they got to be drinkin’.”

The commissioner began to speak. His theme soon appeared, and was Duty.

A satisfactory occasion, was the opinion of the brass after Solwitz’s closing prayer, and handsome Jorge Molina, Deputy Commissioner for Community Affairs, received nods from several of his companions. A good funeral.

John Cherusco, whose proper place was lower down, pushed his way through the crowd as discipline dissolved, the mayor’s and commissioner’s cars swung slowly around the near access road to pick them up, their satellites gathered to escort them. A uniformed inspector, not liking the pushing, shoved back-but Cherusco ignored him, slid away, and pushed some more until he reached the Chief, just as Delgado bent to get into his limousine, third in line behind the commissioner’s.

“Do we just let those assholes walk on this?” Cherusco said, his hand on Delgado’s arm.

“You bet,” said the Chief of the Department.

Nardone followed Ellie over the Queensboro and onto Roosevelt Island, waited while she parked the Honda in the community garage, then drove her to her building, and went in with her.

“I got an idea about this afternoon, if you’re up for it. -An’ I got some news-we’re on the job this evenin’.”

“Shit,” Ellie said. “Just a minute . . .” She walked back to the bathroom, went in, closed the door, and took off her suit jacket and skirt. She took a Tampax from the cabinet, pulled her panty hose down, and sat on the toilet to take the other Tampax out. It was soaked, but she hadn’t stained anything. She put the used tampon in a plastic produce bag from the grocery, twisted it closed, and put it in the wastebasket-then inserted the fresh one. It had been new blood; it didn’t smell at all. She dressed, and washed her hands.

Nardone was sitting on the living-room couch when she P

came out, reading Newsweek. “Another shitty theater season,” he said, and put the magazine down. `-They’re sayin’ these so-called playwrights they got now are a joke.”

“What about this afternoon?” Ellie said. “It’s pretty late. -You want something to eat?”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I figured-“

“You figured Birnbaum,” Ellie said. “Get to him before some old buddy downtown tips him-right?”

“I called the man’s office-he’ll be in till five-thirty.”

“What do you want to eat, Tommy?”

“Nothin’. I had lunch.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I had a hamburger.”

Ellie started back to the kitchen. “I’m going to have a tuna-fish sandwich.” She went into the kitchen and called to him. “-You want lettuce on yours, or not?”

“O ‘ K.”

Mayo patrolled her ankles while she made the sandwiches-using whole wheat, though Nardone didn’t care for it. It was the only bread she had. Ellie bent with a pinch of tuna in her palm for the Siamese, felt the quick needle nibble as he took it from her, the small wet rasp of his tongue.

She brought the sandwiches out with two root beers, and set them on the coffee table.

“I only had whole wheat.”

“That’s O.K.”

“Why this evening? -We’re not scheduled for night.”

“Our idea-we got stuck with it,” Nardone said, and started on his sandwich.

“What idea … ? You want some salt?”

“No. This is great. -Leahy wants us to take Bostwick down to Port Authority.”

“You are kidding me! He’s going to do it?”

“Bostwick’s going’ up to Albany. -State guys are sendin’ a car for him.” He didn’t seem to mind the whole wheat.

“Where is he-where are we supposed to find the guy?”

“Twentieth is holdin’ him for us. Guy’s supposed to be in bad shape.”

“I’ll bet” Ellie said. “That’s O.K. for Leahy. -There’s more to him than you thought, Tommy.”

“He’s O.K.,” Nardone said, and took another big bite. -There’s worse guys.”

Todd Birnbaum’s office was on the eighth floor of a huge, fat, white-brick office building off Madison near Fifty-third. Office workers were already trooping outdone for the day at four-thirty-spinning the revolving center door, shoving the swinging side doors continuously open as Ellie and Nardone bucked the current to work their way in. They’d left the Ford parked in yellow around the corner, its slap light stuck on the roof. -It was not unheard of for particularly stupid tow truckers to snatch unmarked Department cars The elevator going up was empty. -Stayed empty all the way to the eighth floor.

Birnbaum’s office-a small suite, glass partitions all the way through-was fronted at a reception desk by a tall, plain girl in an ivory blouse, black skirt, and soft black tie. There was a short sofa, stainless steel with pebble-finish black plastic cushions. Two chairs to match, and a glass and steel coffee table. -No one was waiting.

Ellie could see Bimbaum-in his shirtsleeves, sleeves rolled up-two offices over, talking with three men in dark suits. The intervening office was empty-bookshelves empty, desk bare.

“We’re police officers,” Nardone said to the tall girl, and showed her his ID. “We’d like to see Mr. Birnbaum.”

“It’s very late,” she said, gestured his ID to be held closer, read it, and made a note on a long legal pad. “If this isn’t terribly important, Officer, tomorrow afternoon might be better.” The tall girl had a big nose, dark, direct eyes. If her complexion had been better, she might have been striking. She’d had acne, and been scarred by it.

“It’s important,” Nardone said. “We’ll wait.” He and Ellie went over and sat side by side on the sofa, leaned forward together to leaf through the magazines on the coffee table, picked two out, sat back, and looked through them.

The receptionist picked up her phone, pressed a button, and said something. Ellie saw Birnbaum on the phone in the back office. He glanced up, the phone to his ear, and looked out at them through the glass partitions.

Then he put the phone down, and she saw him say something to the three men.

“What do you think about those guys?” Nardone said; he was looking at an article in Forbes on discount ratesetting. “They look like wise guys or what?”

One of the men talking with Birnbaum turned to look at them through the partitions.

“I can’t tell if they’re sorry to see us here, or not,” Ellie said.

Ellie was looking at an issue of Consumer Reports. It was the August issue; there was an article on thin TV’s.

Only a little more than an inch thick, and you could hang them on your wall.-The sound was good, too. Turn them off, and there was a painting on them-in the illustration, it was The Raft of the M6duse. Still expensive, but coming down - Coming down … but not enough.

She looked at an article on car insurance, and then one on canned soup.

The soup one was discouraging. She was still reading about chicken noodle when Nardone looked up, and she looked up and saw the three men coming out to reception.

They were businessmen, not O.C. people, a very elderly man, a younger man who looked like his son. And another man-handsome, nice blue eyes.

The two younger men glanced at Ellie as they walked by.

“Garment guys,” Nardone said, and he and Ellie put down their magazines and went in.

“It’s a little late, Officers,” Birnbaum said, “let’s make this quick-O.K.?” He had not gotten up to greet them.

Todd Birnbaum was a stocky young man-younger than Ellie-beard-shadowed though clean shaven, his curly black hair cut short. He had his feet up on a pulled-out desk drawer, and retained, from his important service at City Hall, a brisk and decided air. He didn’t seem impressed by their ID’s, though he read them both carefully. He had small, dark-brown eyes.

“Where are you people from?” he said.

“Commissioner’s Squad,” Ellie said, and Birnbaum smiled.

“So-you have an errand. What is it?”

“We have a homicide investigation,” Nardone said. He sat down in an office chair, and Ellie sat down, too.

“We’re investigating the Gaither killing.”

“Really … ? Now, I wonder why they put you people on that, instead of Division Homicide. -Worried about who Sally might have shtupped?”

“How well did you know her?” Ellie said. `-When did you see her last?”

“No Miranda?”

Ellie dug in her purse, got the card out and read it to him.