by Daniel Hecht
Tuesday morning, he got a call from Flannery's secretary: The DA expected him at one o'clock for an update on the Pinocchio killer. Another command appearance, back by popular demand. Mo almost told the secretary that Flannery could go fuck himself, Big Willie or no, but then remembered his need to keep Flannery allied as a counterbalance to Biedermann. He spent the morning at his desk, running through some paperwork while St. Pierre sat with the phone pressed against his head. The tedium side of the job.
When Mo arrived at the DA's office, Flannery was at his desk, dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit that emphasized his massive shoulders. The teddy-bear charm was a bit thin today, Mo decided. Flannery looked preoccupied as he waved Mo to a chair and sat tapping the desk with his pen.
"How're you doing, Detective?" he asked.
"More or less adequate. You?"
"Task force meeting day after tomorrow. I'll be there myself. I want to make sure I'm up to speed on the case. Thought you and I should touch base."
This was predictable, Mo thought. The DA would be making his first appearance on the new task force, with an audience of other self-important guys to impress. He'd want to bring up some nuanced points to show how on top of things he was, project the proper air of authority. Mo summarized events since he'd seen him last: the complete lack of progress on Daniel O'Connor's murder, the precious few leads on Irene Bushnell's murder, nothing solid on the Carolyn Rappaport case other than the indications of the killer's increasing psychological imbalance.
Flannery's frown deepened by degrees, and at last he held up a hand. "You think I'm a pretty complete bimbo, don't you? Another asshole politico with no brains, no integrity, no commitments other than making himself look good. A guy whose best talent is spotting necks to step on on his climb to success. Have I got that about right?"
Mo did a double take, getting a sour grin from Flannery.
"Hey, I'm telepathic!" Flannery said acidly. He stood, went to his window, looked out over the forest of construction cranes across the plaza. The daylight reflected off his bald dome. "Look, Mo—I can call you Mo, right?—you can think whatever you like about me personally, I'm an asshole, whatever. Fine. But I want to tell you something. Authority isn't just handed to anybody. Being the big guy, able to get the big jobs done, requires that people around you believe you're the big guy. Yeah, my job is part theater. So, yeah, in the interests of earning some clout, I like to look good. I like to have some extra strings to pull to get things done. And, yeah, in the interests of the public's sense of security and well-being, I like to look like I know what I'm doing, like I'm confident about positive outcomes. No question." Flannery turned back from the window, came to stand in front of his desk. His blue eyes bored into Mo's, and he was actually breathing hard with the intensity of feeling. "But just remember, whatever your opinion, it is not about me. It is about getting the job done!"
Flannery hurled the last words at Mo and then, wham!, brought a meaty fist down on, the desk. The desktop was a solid slab of mahogany, but the pen set and phone jumped half an inch.
The blow startled Mo, but he managed not to move, not even to blink. "So it's lonely at the top?"
Flannery just stared at him, shaking his head sadly. "Cool customer, huh? Well, that's good, because this is a shit heap, isn't it, and the pressure's about to go up. Carolyn Rappaport was the daughter of the school superintendent. I know the Rappaports socially, they've communicated with me directly about their daughter's murder. People feel very threatened when this kind of thing happens to the daughters of prominent citizens, 'Mo.'"
"We're doing everything—"
" 'Everything'? My understanding is, Carolyn Rappaport was killed Friday night. You got out there Saturday. When did I hear about it? Monday. When were you thinking you might get around to telling me about it? How ready do you think I sounded when Bill Rappaport called me yesterday? How in charge did I sound?" Flannery had gotten cranked up again, but then caught himself and brought it under control. He leaned back against his desk and folded his arms. "Any other little details you haven't gotten around to telling me?"
There was a lot to tell somebody, an ocean of complications, but Mo needed time to think about how to go about it. Whether telling Flannery was the right place to start. "I don't think so," he said.
Flannery's face brightened. "Oh. I see. Like you didn't get anything worthwhile from consulting with the psychologist, what's her name, on a profile for this creep? Not a crumb of insight you could share with the district attorney? And you didn't learn anything from Erik Biedermann about where the FBI is going with this? After he put on his three-ring circus at the power station last Friday?"
Flannery was showing him that he was keeping tabs on the investigation, on Mo personally, and Mo almost asked who was reporting to him. But he was sick of the game. He stood up and went to lean against the desk himself. He was still a little shorter, but at least they were side by side, it wasn't so uneven. Flannery's leathery neck wrinkled as he turned his head. Up this close, Mo saw other things in his face beside the bearish charm. The wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes told of cunning and striving, but beneath that was anxiety, even sadness. Maybe the DA did have an agenda beyond self-aggrandizement, maybe even something like the personal crusade to combat evil that motivated many cops. Including Mo Ford. In which case, not unlike Mo, he daily faced an endless, losing battle.
Against his better judgment, Mo felt for the guy, and he decided against making a smart-ass comeback. Instead he said, "Look, I'll send you copies of my notes. But I don't have time for this bullshit. There are a lot of possible leads, most of them will prove to be dead ends, I can't tell you anything substantive other than what I already told you. Biedermann doesn't tell me anything, you'll have to talk to him directly if you want more. If there are nuances you're missing, that's what these task-force meetings are about. We'll all know more on Thursday."
Flannery nodded at that. "Okay." He checked his watch with a weary gesture, then got off the desk and went around to sit in his chair again. He jotted a number on a scrap of paper and shoved it across to Mo. "Okay, Detective. This is my personal cell phone number, it's always with me. What you're gonna do is, right here while I'm watching, take out your cell phone and peck that sucker into your phone's memory. So you've got one button to push to call me thefuck up when there are developments! So you have no goddamned excuses."
Flannery watched expectantly, his eyes hard. Playing the big boss. Mo looked at him for a moment, then decided what the hell. He took out his Nokia and programmed in Flannery's cell number.
A glint of satisfaction flitted over Flannery's face, the guy getting his jollies from pushing Mo around. "Very good. Then I'll see you Thursday. And thank you for your time."
Mo was at the door when the DA called to him again. "Oh. Just so you know. A heads-up about, what'd you guys call him, Big Willie."
Mo turned to see Flannery with a big grin on his face. It gave him shock.
"I got a call from the attorney for Willard's family. Turns out he's got a rich uncle in Philadelphia. They're considering a wrongful-death civil suit against you personally. And they're urging me to press criminal charges as well."
Terrific, Mo was thinking. On top of everything else, a tangle of legal hassles and expenses. Court appearances, the other side's calculated vilification of him. Win or lose, the harrying of months of litigation. As if his life weren't enough of a mess. As if Rebecca wouldn't have enough doubts about getting together with a guy like him.
"So what'd you tell them?" he croaked.
Flannery was really enjoying this. "I told them I was reviewing the incident and considering the possibility of criminal charges. But just between you and me and the wall, I'm not inclined in that direction. At this juncture, anyway."
Flannery's mouth grinned. Mo nodded to show he'd heard what he intended—another reminder about Mo's obligation to do his bidding, about who was in charge.
All in all, a crappy day, ending in a stu
ffy, humid night. The Southern Gothic feel had returned. Mo got to the house after dark and immediately took a walk through the place, just something it felt good to do. He turned on lights as he went, revealing empty rooms, glaring oak floors, dark, bare windows. When he'd toured all three floors, he shut off the unnecessary lights and went to make a sandwich from some pastrami and rye bread he'd picked up. The food helped, gave his stomach something to do besides clench. He wanted a beer but didn't want to impair his reflexes with alcohol. And he had a lot to think about, needed a clear head.
The phone at his elbow went off and made him jump. He grabbed the receiver.
"Morgan, hi—it's Detta. How are you, honey?"
Detta was Carla's mother. She was a small, dark-haired, energetic woman who looked a lot like her daughter. With all the rental real estate she owned, she had made some money, and she'd used a good share of it for face-lifts, fitness training, cosmetics, a youthful wardrobe. Seeing her and Carla together, most people took her for an older sister.
"Not so good. You've talked to Carla? You know we're, uh, we're having some trouble—"
"She told me she moved out, honey. I'm so sorry. You know how much I've always liked you. I've told Carla that many times."
"Thanks." Mo was thinking feverishly. Detta was okay, but when someone prefaced what they were going to say with how much they liked you, you were usually in trouble. "Detta, I know I've got to move, I've already checked out a couple of places, and—"
"Morgan. Is that why you think I called? To give you your eviction notice? Honey, you know I think of you as family."
"Well, thanks—"
"Really, I was calling about Carla." Detta's chipper suburban real estate agent's voice picked up a note of concern. "I'm worried about her, Morgan. She doesn't look well. I'm concerned about that book she's writing, those people she's seeing. How did she seem when you saw her?"
Mo dodged the question. "Haven't seen her in a few days. Was there something in particular?"
"She was here yesterday, and, honestly, I don't think I've ever seen her so . . . troubled, um, distant. Different. At first I thought it was you two, I know how hard that can be. But she was talking this spooky talk. She's seeing voodoo people, she's seeing every kind of crazy psychic, I don't know all the details. The scariest part is, she sounds as if she believes all this supernatural business! She told me she's been seeing an old woman in Brooklyn, what did she call her—a mudda-woman. That's some kind of a Jamaican witch, I think. I've called her at Stephanie's, late in the evening, and Stephie just tosses off, 'Oh, she's down in Brooklyn,' as if she's, she's taking a night secretarial class instead of. . . slaughtering goats and drinking blood, or whatever they do."
Detta's voice had risen until it had a nearly hysterical ring to it. Now she lapsed into silence, and Mo heard her draw desperately on a cigarette.
"And every time I talk to her," Detta went on, "she makes these mysterious comments, she's had these bad, what, visions or prophecies, I don't know what you call them. Morgan, isn't that one of the symptoms of schizophrenia? That scares me to death! It runs in our family, I never told you this, but my sister—"
"What do you want me to do?"
"The last time I saw her, we were drinking cranberry juice at my kitchen table, and Carla was telling me all this hocus-pocus. And she was squeezing her glass so tightly it broke in her hand! And there was red juice all over, and she cut her fingers. And I thought, oh, my God—"
"Detta, I'm convinced. But what do you want me to do?"
"Morgan, honey, I know you're not, you know, responsible for her anymore. But I don't know who else to ask. I was just thinking, I know you still care about her, maybe you could talk to her. You're a policeman, maybe you could go to Brooklyn? But in such a way that, whatever Carla's involvement is, it doesn't get her . . . you know. In trouble. With the law." She smoked for a moment, then finished craftily, "I just think so highly of you, honey, and I'm sure we can work something out with the house."
So she was bribing him: Make sure Carla's all right and you can stay on. Mo felt like telling her how much he liked the goddamned place. And yet the thought of Carla having a hard time—that was painful. A lot of tenderness still there, a well of it inside him.
"Detta, I'll talk to Stephie tomorrow, I'll try to see Carla, I'll do what I can about the Brooklyn thing. I'll call you soon, okay?" Like I need this right now, he was thinking.
She was grateful. She'd always thought of him as family. She was just a little desperate, that's all.
As Mo hung up, the last thing he heard was Detta sucking on her cigarette.
26
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON. Mo had always liked Brooklyn, but he had only been to this section of Bed-Stuy maybe twice in his life. It was generally avoided if you weren't local, weren't black. He was glad Ty had agreed to come with him, and he wondered briefly how Carla had managed to connect with the Jamaican voodoo circle here. How she ever got in and out: white girl in a cute red Honda Civic. For once he almost didn't mind wearing the cop look, the indelible brand. Between him and Ty, a white guy and a black guy cruising the streets in a Crown Vic, they'd look like some kind of heat from a mile away and people would keep a respectful distance.
He'd met Ty at his Bronx PD precinct station, and they'd driven in Ty's car down the Bruckner, across Hell Gate, and through Queens. Brooklyn always seemed to Mo a nation unto itself, four times the size of Manhattan, with plush residential neighborhoods, small-town shopping districts, devastated warrens of crumbling masonry, chic big-city downtowns, you name it, and every color and nationality and persuasion of human being.
Ty drove in stony silence. Man of few words most of the time, but Mo had once observed him addressing his troops, an hour-long harangue that demonstrated Ty had hidden talents as an orator. Ordinarily Mo would have tried to pry a word out of him, but for once he didn't mind his silence. It gave him a chance to just look at the sights of Brooklyn sliding by. Brooklyn had this unique ambience, this moxie, that he never got tired of looking at.
Another dead-end day. It was a phase of investigations that Mo dreaded—the sense of stalling, of time passing and the trail cooling. He and St. Pierre had compared notes on their interviews with Irene Bushnell's clients and agreed that nothing looked promising. There were a few more interviews to run down, but he didn't have a lot of hope for any of them.
Ty broke into his thoughts: "That looks like it." He jutted his chin at a three-story brick building with a cement stoop covered by graffiti. It was one of a row of similar buildings, not too run-down, but it stood out because the metal front door was painted yellow and green. Plywood had been nailed up behind the bars on the first-floor windows. A tall young man lounged on the stoop, wearing a Rasta tarn and a T-shirt that revealed weight-trained muscles. His sunglasses made him look like a praying mantis and did nothing to conceal his alertness: a sentinel. Mo spotted Carla's red Civic at the curb just down the street.
The guard's head swiveled to watch them as they parked and approached the stoop. Mo was conscious of the neighborhood's attention, people pausing to watch these two intruders.
"What up?" the guard asked. He still half-leaned against the doorway, arms crossed on his chest, giving them his eyeless gaze.
"We're looking for Carla Salerno," Ty said. "She here?"
"Wrong place," the guard said. He didn't move a muscle. A group of teenagers at the next stoop had turned and were watching them with a lot of interest.
Mo felt Ty's body go tense. Ty had limited patience for attitude, especially when his teeth were hurting. Mo knew that though he was four inches shorter and thirty years older than the guard, Ty could and would have the guy in the gutter on his face if his next word was less than cooperative.
Mo moved so that he was in front of Ty. "Not a police thing," he said. "She's a friend of mine. Do me a favor, just tell her it's Mo."
The sunglasses glistened at him for a moment. Without turning away, the guard gave a short rap on the door. It o
pened a little, and the guard conferred briefly with someone through the crack. Then the door closed and he turned back and leaned against it again. "Chill an' we see," he said.
When the door finally opened again, Ty opted to stay outside. "I don't need to get involved in relationship stuff. I'll just stay out here and keep an eye on Junior." He sat on the railing of the stoop and gave the guard the evil eye. "But call me if you need me, huh?"
Mo was ushered inside by a slim black woman who locked the heavy door behind them.
The building had obviously been built as a six-flat, but the interior walls of the entry area had been removed so that they stood in a much larger room, lit only by electric light. It was empty except for about a dozen folding chairs scattered along two walls, occupied by three middle-aged women and a gray-haired old man. From their look of patient expectation, Mo understood this was a waiting room, something like a country rail station or a doctor's lobby.
The young woman led Mo up the stairs, toward the echoing sound of television theme music. "Mudda Raymon, she very old," she explained. "We take care of her. But I tell her what you want, she say she waiting for you. She say she happy to see you." A musical Caribbean accent.
"I don't need to take her time," Mo said. "I'm just here to see Carla."
She led him into another room that had been made bigger by knocking out walls, this one set up as a combination living room and bedroom. The air was hot, thick with the smells of cooking and body odor, and the only light came from a big-screen television at one end of the room and a number of candles around an altarlike assemblage of portraits and curios. An old person's room, Mo decided: An aluminum walker stood near the bed, and one table held a blood-pressure cuff, a bunch of prescription bottles, a hairbrush thick with white strands. Around the room stood pots of flowers, some fresh and some dead and hanging from dry stems.
