Strega (29 page)

86

T
HE MOON's cold light never penetrated to the dark streets, but I felt it deep in my spine as I wheeled the Plymouth past the burnt–out buildings on Atlantic. The radio was talking about Marcos settling down in Hawaii. He split the Philippines a few weeks ago, traveling light—a couple of loyal subjects, and the gross national product of his entire country for the last dozen years. A major–league scumbag.

I cut the engine, letting the Plymouth coast around to the garage in back. The door was standing open. Only the BMW was there. I backed the Plymouth inside, found the button, and closed the door. Waiting in the darkness.

A door opened. I could see her back–lighted silhouette standing there, weaving slightly—a candle flame in a gentle breeze.

I climbed out of the Plymouth. When I looked up again, the doorway was empty. I went through the opening and saw her gently floating up the stairs. Her body was wrapped in some gauzy black fabric, blending into the shadows under her red hair. When I got to the top of the stairs, she was gone again.

No lights were on in the house. I found my way into her white living room and took off my coat. I took out a cigarette, scraped the wooden match into life. As I touched the tip of the cigarette to the flame, I heard her voice. "Me too," she whispered, floating into the dark room, bending her face forward to the flame. A lollipop stick of marijuana was in her mouth.

I held the light for her, watched her puff to get the joint going and then suck in a massive breath. She floated away from me to the couch—the tip of the joint was a glowing pinpoint in the dark room.

"You having a séance?" I asked her.

"You afraid of the dark?" she retorted.

"I'm afraid of a lot of things," I told her.

"I know," she said, dragging on the joint again, holding her breath, expelling it in a hiss.

"It'll be over soon," I said. "I'm getting close."

"To the picture?"

"To the person who took the picture. I can't be sure the picture is still around—like I told you. But I think I can get some answers soon."

"You want me to do something?"

"I just want an answer to something. I have a couple of more things to do—then I'm going to the people who took the picture, okay? But the picture may be with a whole bunch of other pictures. I may not have time to look through them all—you understand?"

"So?"

"So what if I just destroy
all
the pictures? Make sure there aren't any pictures left. Of anybody."

Another drag on the joint, red tip blazing, sharp intake of breath, hiss when it came out. "I want to see the picture," she said.

"I'll do my best. But I'm not hanging around if things go bad, see? Scotty wasn't the only one—I'm sure of that now. The people who took the picture, they're in the business, understand?"

"Yes."

"I don't know how much time I'll have once I get inside."

She took a last drag and the joint went out; maybe she just pinched off the tip—I couldn't tell.

"You want to get inside now?" Strega said, coming off the couch toward me.

"No," I told her.

"Yes, you do," she said, standing next to me. She dropped to her knees, the black gauze fluttering behind me. Bat's wings. Her face was in my lap, her hands at my belt. My hand dropped onto her back, feeling the fabric—and the chill.

"Don't touch me," she whispered.

I watched my hands grip the arms of the chair; the veins stood out. A picture formed on the back of my hands—below the waist I was somewhere else—the picture formed and I could see my passport into the woman's house.

I felt myself go off, but her mouth stayed locked to me for a long time. She reached back one hand, pulled off the gauzy wrapper—her body was a gleam of white.

Strega took her mouth from me, wrapping the gauze around me, cleaning me off, tossing the fabric to the floor.

"You didn't even have to ask—I know what to do," she whispered against my chest.

I stroked her back. It felt too smooth to be a person.

"I'm a good girl," she said, her voice certain and sure of itself, the way a kid gets sometimes.

I kept stroking her.

"Yes?" she whispered. "Yeah," I said. We stayed like that for a long time.

"I'LL be right back," she said, her voice strong and hard again. "I have to get something for you." She got to her feet and padded away.

The downstairs bathroom had two matching sinks; a telephone was built into a niche near the tub. I caught my reflection in the mirror—it looked like a mug shot.

When she came back downstairs, I was standing next to the wall–size window in the living room, watching the lights in the yard. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe; her hair was wet, copper–colored in the soft light.

"This is for you," she said, opening her hand for me to see.

It was a thick gold chain the size of my wrist—each link must have weighed a couple of ounces. I held it in my hand, feeling the weight. It was solid enough to be a collar for Pansy.

"It's beautiful," I said, slipping it into my pocket.

"Put it on," Strega said, reaching into my pocket to pull it out again.

I thought of the tattoos on B.T.'s wrists. "I don't wear chains," I told her.

"You'll wear mine," she said, fire–points in her eyes.

"No, I won't," I told her, my voice quiet.

She stood on her toes, reached behind me to pull at my neck—she was so close I couldn't focus on her eyes. "I'll keep this for you—I'll sleep with it next to my body. When you come back to me—when you come back with the picture—you'll put it on."

I put my lips against her—she pulled her face away.

"Bring me that picture," she said, turning her face to the window.

I left her standing there, looking like a little girl waiting for her father to come home from work.

87

T
HE PLYMOUTH took itself back to the office. I had to call Wolfe in a couple of hours; no point in trying to sleep.

I kicked my feet up on my desk, a yellow pad in my hand, and jotted down notes of what I knew, telling myself I was putting it together. When I opened my eyes, it was almost eight in the morning. Somebody had written
Bruja
on the pad and crossed it out—I could read the word through the scratches.

I took a shower, waiting for Pansy to come down from the roof. Checked the phone—clear to call. The number Lily gave me for Wolfe rang a couple of times.

"City–Wide."

"Ms. Wolfe, please."

"This is she."

"It's Burke. I'd like to talk to you about something."

"Yes?"

"In your office—if that's okay."

I could feel her hesitate.

"I have something to give you—something that will be of value in your work."

"What?" she asked.

"I'd prefer to show you." Another silence. Then:

"You know where my office is?"

"Yes."

"Make it nine o'clock. Give your name to the desk man."

"There isn't much time," I told her. "I live all the way up in Westchester County—the traffic and all…"

"Nine o'clock
tonight
, Mr. Burke."

She hung up. I went back to sleep.

88

T
HE DAY came up bleak—dirty skies, a cold wind hovering over the city, waiting its turn. I blocked it all out, walking through the case inside my head, looking for a handle to grip. I didn't walk around while I was thinking—one of the first things you learn in prison is not to pace, it just underlines that you're in a cage. If you stay inside your head, you can go over the walls.

I'd been playing this all wrong—not paying attention to all the tuition payments I'd made in jails and hospitals over the years. Something about this case was making me afraid, but that wasn't so strange. I'm scared most of the time—it keeps me from getting stupid. But I'm used to being scared of the usual things—like being shot or doing more timenot this
bruja
nonsense Pablo told me about. You ever watch a fighter who slugged his way into a championship bout decide he's a fucking boxer and blow his big chance? You have to go with what got you there. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, thinking it over. Crime had never made me rich, but it kept me free. And it was what I knew best.

I didn't get started until late afternoon, taking my time about getting ready. I picked over my clothes, looking for something that wouldn't make the people in Wolfe's building nervous. I found a black wool suit with a faint chalk stripe hanging in the closet. It was brand–new, but a bit rumpled from storage—car trunks do that. I matched it with a white shirt—genuine Hong Kong silk, which is like saying "virgin vinyl." And a plain black tie. I washed my hair and combed it the best I could. Shaved carefully. Polished the black half–boots. I checked myself out in the mirror. Clothes do make the man—instead of looking like a thug who worked the docks, I looked like a pilot fish for a loan shark.

I folded some money into one pocket, took a couple of other things I needed out of the desk, and shut the place down. Pansy raised one eyebrow, still near comatose from the cubic ton of Chinese food. I told her I'd be back late and took the back stairs to the garage.

I checked my watch. A little past six. Plenty of time to have something to eat, get my mind right for the meeting.

When I first rolled past the restaurant, the blue dragon tapestry was in the window. Cops inside. I kept going all the way down to Division Street to the warehouse. Nobody was around. I checked the desk in the back room to see if any mail had circled around the loops I set up and come in for a landing. Flood knew how to work the loop, but she'd never written. The desk was empty.

When I drove back, the white tapestry was in place. All clear. I parked around the back. A couple of the cooks looked suspiciously at me—maybe the ones who lost the bet on Pansy's nationality. I took my table in the back. Mama sat down with me, handing over a copy of the
News
.

"You had the law here, Mama?"

"Yes. Police very worried about this place. The gangs—stores have to pay for protection. They ask me if it happen to me."

You could see Mama thought the whole idea was ridiculous—the gangs only tried their shakedown racket on legitimate businesses.

"What did you tell them?"

"I tell them the truth. Nobody bother me. You want soup?"

"Sure," I told her, opening the paper as she went back to her business.

I'd almost forgotten about Flower Jewel. I flipped to the back of the paper, looking for her name. I found it, but it didn't cheer me up. She'd left early, but some other nag parked her to the first quarter in 28:4. Too fast. She was shuffled back into the pack. Then she make a big brush at the three–quarter pole, going three–wide on the paddock turn. She actually had the lead at the top of the stretch, but the little "lx" told me the story—she broke stride, looking for more speed. Finished fourth. It looked like a lousy drive to me, but Maurice would want his money, not an autopsy.

I finished my soup, ate a few of the dim sum the waiter brought, smoked a couple of cigarettes. I went up to the front desk and slipped Mama the three hundred for Maurice with another thirty for Max.

"You not such good gambler, Burke," she said, a little smile on her face.

"I don't get many chances to bet on a sure thing," I told her. "Like where dogs come from."

Mama wasn't insulted. "Only way to bet," she said.

It was time to visit Wolfe.

89

T
RAFFIC WAS light on the way to the courthouse. I turned off Queens Boulevard and nosed past the D.A.'s parking lot, saw Wolfe's Audi near the door. The lot was half empty, but I didn't want to leave the Plymouth there. They have municipal parking a half–block away. It looked like a graveyard for the few cars still remaining. Dark and deserted—a mugger's paradise. I hit the switch to disable the ignition, not worrying about even the lowest–grade thief breaking in for the radio. I don't use a car alarm—they're a waste of time unless you're close by.

It was eight–forty–five when I pushed open the glass doors to the D.A.'s office. The guy at the desk looked up from his crossword puzzle. His eyes never reached my face.

"The jail's next door," he said.

"I know," I told him. "I have an appointment with A.D.A. Wolfe."

Still not looking at me, he picked up a black phone on the desk, punched in a couple of numbers.

"There's a lawyer here—says he's got an appointment with Wolfe." He listened for a second, looked up again. "Name?" he asked. "Burke."

He spoke my name into the phone, then put it down. "Turn right past the divider, last door at the end of the corridor." "Thanks," I said to the top of his head.

I found the place easy enough. Wolfe was sitting behind a big desk. The top was swept clean—a white orchid floated in a brandy snifter in one corner. Two monster piles of paper were on a shelf behind her. I guess she knew most cons can read upside down.

She was wearing a white wool jacket over a burnt–orange dress, a string of pearls around her neck. Her nails were a few shades darker than her lipstick—both red. Wolfe had a soft, pale face—one look and you could see it wasn't from fear, it was her natural color. The silver wings gleamed in her lustrous hair. When I came in the room she stood up, reached across the desk to shake hands.

"Thank you for seeing me," I said.

"I can't promise you much privacy," she replied. "There's a lot of people still working in the other offices."

I couldn't tell if it was a warning—it didn't matter.

"I've been working on something for a while," I said. "And I ran across some stuff I thought you'd be interested in."

She lit a cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter, pushing an ashtray with some hotel's name on it in my general direction. She was good at waiting.

"Anyway," I said, "I got to the point where I need some more information—another piece of the puzzle…"

"And you believe I have this piece?"

"I'm sure you do," I said.

A tall black woman stalked into the office, ignoring me as if I was a lump of furniture. Her mouth was a grim line.

"It was an acquittal," she told Wolfe.

Wolfe's face didn't change. "It figured to be," she said. "Did you stand up?"

"Stand up?" the black woman asked.

I knew what she meant even if the black woman didn't. Baby–rapers have a way of smirking when the jury refuses to believe their victims—as if the jury said it was okay, what they did. A good prosecutor looks them in the eye, memorizing their faces.

"What did you do when the foreman read the verdict?" Wolfe asked the question another way.

"I went over to the defendant—I told him I'd see him again," the black woman said.

"You stood up," Wolfe told her. "Round one, remember?"

"I remember," the black woman said. "He'll be back. And I'll be ready for him."

Wolfe smiled—I could feel the heat coming off the black woman standing behind me. She knew what the smile meant.

"Want to take tomorrow off?" Wolfe asked.

"I'll take a day off when Jefferson goes down," the black woman snapped.

"We all will," Wolfe said. It was a dismissal.

I lit another cigarette. Wolfe hadn't hung around just for a meeting with me. Time to get to it.

"I'm playing it straight down the line on this. Did Lily talk to you?"

"Lily did. McGowan called me too."

"And?"

"And I still don't know what you want, Mr. Burke."

"I want…" I started to say. A guy about five and a half feet tall and four feet wide walked in, stepping between me and Wolfe. His hair was cropped close to his scalp–he had a round face but cop's eyes. He was wearing a black knit shirt over some gray slacks. The shirt didn't have an alligator on the front, but it did feature a shoulder holster. The .38 was only a small dot on his broad chest. He looked like a retired wrestler or a bouncer in a waterfront bar.

"How's it going?" he asked Wolfe, never taking his eyes from me.

"Jefferson was acquitted," she said.

"Jefferson is a miserable fucking piece of slime," the big guy said, chewing on each word like it was raw meat.

Wolfe smiled at him. "This isn't Jefferson's lawyer," she said.

The big guy shrugged. It was like watching an earthquake. "You want the mutt?" he asked.

"Sure, bring him over," Wolfe told him.

The big guy walked out, light on his feet. Maybe he'd been a boxer instead of a wrestler.

Wolfe lit another smoke for herself and held up her hand, telling me to wait.

The big guy was back in a minute, holding Wolfe's Rottweiler on a short leather leash.

"Hi, Bruise!" Wolfe said. The beast walked right past me, put his paws on the desk, and tried to lick her face. She slapped him away good–naturedly. "Bruiser, go to place!" she said.

The big guy unsnapped the leash. The Rottweiler walked to a corner of the room and flopped down on the carpet. He watched me like a junkie watching a mailbox on welfare–check day.

"I'll be around," the big guy said. I got the message—as if the Rottweiler wasn't enough.

"I'm listening," Wolfe said.

"I'm looking for a picture. Of a kid. A picture of a kid having sex with a man. I talked to a lot of people, went a lot of places. I think I know where the picture is. I think you know the people who have the picture. All I want is for you to give me a name and address."

"You said you had something for me?" she asked. One look at Wolfe and you knew she wasn't talking about money—even in Queens County.

I tossed the little leather address book I took from the pimp on her desk. She didn't make a move to touch it.

"It's from a guy who sells little boys. In Times Square. First names. Initials. Phone numbers. And some kind of code."

"How did you come by this?"

"I was taking up a collection—he donated it."

Wolfe took a drag of her cigarette, put it in the overflowing ashtray, picked up the book. She turned the pages slowly, nodding to herself.

"Did he get hurt making this donation?"

"Not badly," I told her. "If you want to ask him yourself, his name's Rodney. He works out of that fast–food chicken joint on Forty–sixth off Eighth."

Wolfe nodded. "And you want to trade this book for the information?"

I took a gamble. "It's yours," I told her. "No matter what you decide."

"You have a copy?"

"No," I lied.

Wolfe tapped her nails on the desk. It wasn't a nervous gesture—something she did when she was thinking. A phone rang someplace down the hall. It rang twice, then stopped.

A tiny little woman burst into the office, her face flushed, waving a bunch of papers in her hand. "We got the printout!" she yelled, the words sticking in her throat when she saw Wolfe had a visitor. The Rottweiler snarled at the intrusion. The woman had her hair all piled on top of her head; a giant diamond sparkled on her finger. She put her hands on her hips. "Bruiser,
please
!" she said.

The big dog subsided. Wolfe laughed. "I'll look at it later, okay?"

"Okay!" the other woman shouted, running out of the office as if she was going to a fire sale.

"Are all your people so worked up?" I asked her.

"We don't have draftees in this unit," she said, her eyes watching me closely.

"Not even the dog?"

"Not even him." She fingered her string of pearls. "What do you need?"

"I know the woman I'm looking for is named Bonnie. I know she lives on Cheshire Drive in Little Neck. Maybe with a fat guy.

"That's it?"

"That's it. She's running a kiddie–porn ring—I figure you have your eye on her."

Wolfe said nothing, waiting for me.

"And if you don't," I told her, "then I just gave you some more information, right?"

Wolfe took a breath. "What is it you really want, Mr. Burke? You obviously already know how to find this person.

I lit a cigarette for myself—it was time to tell her.

"I have to go in there—I have to get that picture. If I can buy it, I will."

"And if you can't…?"

I shrugged.

Wolfe reached behind her and pulled a bunch of papers onto her desk. Some of the sheets were long and yellow—I knew what they were.

"Mr. Burke, Lily did call me, as I said. But I did a little checking on my own before I agreed to this meeting."

"So?"

"So you are not exactly unknown to law enforcement, are you?" She ran her finger down one of the yellow sheets, reading aloud, lifting her eyes to my face every once in a while. "Armed robbery, assault one, armed robbery
and
assault. Attempted murder, two counts. Possession of illegal weapons. Should I go on?"

"If you want to," I told her. "I was a lot younger then."

Wolfe smiled. "You're rehabilitated?"

"I'm a coward," I told her.

"We have twenty–seven arrests, two felony convictions, three placements in juvenile facilities, one youthful–offender adjudication."

"Sounds about right to me," I told her.

"How did you beat the attempted–murder case? It says you were acquitted at trial."

"It was a gunfight," I told her. "The cops arrested the winner. The other guys testified it was somebody else who shot them."

"I see."

"Anything on that sheet tell you I don't keep my word?" I asked her.

Wolfe smiled again. "Rap sheets don't tell you much, Mr. Burke. Take this one—it doesn't even give your first name."

"Sure it does," I told her.

"Mr. Burke, this shows a different first name for every single time you were arrested. Maxwell Burke, John Burke, Samuel Burke, Leonard Burke, Juan Burke…" She stopped, smiling again. "
Juan
?"

"
Dónde está el dinero
?" I said.

This time she laughed. It was a sweet chuckle, the kind only a grown woman can do. It made my heart hurt for Flood.

"Do you have a true first name, Mr. Burke?"

"No."

Wolfe's smile was ironic. "What does it say on your birth certificate?"

"Baby Boy Burke," I told her, my voice flat.

"Oh," Wolfe said. She'd seen enough birth certificates to know I'd never have to worry about buying a present on Mother's Day. I shrugged again, showing her it didn't mean anything to me. Now.

Wolfe took another piece of paper off her desk—this one wasn't yellow.

"The FBI has a sheet on you too," she said.

"I never took a federal fall."

"I see that. But you
are
listed as a suspect in several deals involving military weapons. And a CIA cross–reference shows you were out of the country for almost a year.

"I like to travel," I told her.

"You don't have a passport," she said.

"I didn't come here to ask you for a date," I said. "I'm not applying for a job either. I admire what you do—I respect your work. I thought I could help you—that you could help me too."

"And if we can't work this out?"

"I'm going into that house," I told her, looking her full in her lovely face like the crazy bastard this case had turned me into.

Wolfe picked up the phone, punched a number. "Nothing's wrong," she said. "Come in here." She hung up. "I want to be sure you're not wearing a wire, okay? Then we'll talk."

"Whatever you say," I told her.

The bouncer came back in, the .38 almost lost in his meaty hand.

"I told you nothing was wrong," Wolfe said.

"That was a few seconds ago," he snapped. The Rottweiler growled at him. "Good boy," he said.

"Would you please take this gentleman with you and see if he has anything on him he shouldn't have," Wolfe told him.

The big guy put his hand on my shoulder—it felt like an anvil.

"There's no problem," Wolfe said to him, a warning note in her voice.

We went past a couple of offices—the tall black woman was reading something and making notes, the little lady with the piled–up hair was talking a mile a minute on the phone, a handsome black man was studying a hand–drawn chart on the wall. I heard a teletype machine clatter—bad news for somebody.

"Doesn't anybody go home around here?" I asked the big guy.

"Yeah, pal—some people go home. Some people should stay home."

I didn't try any more conversation–starters. He took me into a bare office and did the whole search number, working at it like a prison guard you forgot to bribe. He took me back to Wolfe.

"Nothing," he said, disappointed. He left us alone.

The Rottweiler was sitting next to Wolfe, watching the door as she patted his head. She pointed to his corner again and he went back, as reluctant as the big guy was.

"Mr. Burke, this is the situation. The woman you intend to visit is Bonnie Browne, with an 'e.' She sometimes uses the name Young as well—it's her maiden name. The man she lives with is her husband. George Browne. He has two arrests for child molesting—one dismissal, one plea to an endangering count. Served ninety days in California. She's never been arrested."

I put my hand in my pocket, reaching for a smoke.

"Don't write any of this down," Wolfe said.

"I'm not," I told her, lighting the smoke.

"We believe this woman to be the principal in a great number of corporations—holding companies, really. But she doesn't operate the way most of the kiddie–porn merchants do. You understand what I mean?"

"Yeah," I told her. "You want the pictures—videotapes, whatever—you send a money order to a drop–box in Brussels. When the money clears, you get a shipment in the mail from Denmark, or England, or any other place they're established. Then the money orders get mailed to an offshore bank—maybe the Cayman Islands—and the bank makes a loan to some phony corporation set up in the States."