“The boy’s name is Delaney Patterson,” Rattigan said. “His family moved into the area a couple years ago. In one of these low-income developments the feds threw up across the highway. I don’t know how you feel about this forced integration bullshit but…”
“Detective…” Kenny put up a hand.
“It’s okay.” Rattigan shrugged. “The rooms down here are soundproof. But anyway, he was supposed to be some kind of badass football quarterback, who’s gonna turn the team around because we were like two and eight the year before. But lo and behold, he screws up his knee at a scrimmage and is out for the season. So that’s that. And instead he starts running around with the wrong crowd.”
“And this connects with our little girl who has twigs and branches in her throat because…?”
“Because they were both mixed up in drugs.” Rattigan led him a few paces away from the one-way glass. “Kim was acting up because her parents were getting divorced and her mom’s the town pump. And this Patterson because he’s from the projects in the Bronx originally and he’s still got family living there with the other savages. Easy for him to get pot, coke, whatever, bring it out here. We figure Kim being the white girl, knows a lot of the older white kids out here that Patterson can sell to. So she would have been the connect.”
“And why the twigs and sticks down her throat?”
“You know how black guys are with little white girls. Maybe this Delaney tried something and she started yelling her head off. Then he decides he better shut her up and make sure she stays that way. Who knows how these people think? If you can even call them ‘people.’ All I can tell you is, this shine is good for it.”
Kenny glanced back toward the one-way glass. “He already confessed?”
“Well, heh, not so fast.” Rattigan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “They don’t call me the Hundred Percent Man yet. Our boy gave us a few things that are incriminating, but he’s not giving up the whole enchilada. He thinks he’s tough. Apparently he’s had other interactions with law enforcement in the city.”
“Is that why he already has that bruise on his cheek?” Kenny asked, adjusting his own glasses.
“Hey, I don’t know how he got that. Maybe it’s even evidence of the struggle he had with the girl.”
“It looks a little fresh for that,” Kenny noted. “The murder was almost twenty hours ago. And why is he not in a normal interrogation room with a lawyer present? How old is he anyway?”
“Just turned eighteen. And that’s good enough for the state of New York. He’s been advised of his rights and his lawyer’s on the way.”
“So we have nothing on him?” Kenny’s voice cracked. “Why are we even holding him?”
His mind still stuck on Rattigan saying, “This shine is good for it.” His sinuses made a sound like a car hitting the brakes on a rainy night as he took a long deep breath.
He had been asking around about Billy the Kid. The man was a mixed picture at best. A dogged worker, to be sure. And much admired by some of his fellow officers for his zeal and inventiveness. But Kenny distrusted inventiveness in cops. Especially when it led to wobbly testimony and judges reviewing cases on appeal.
“Relax.” Rattigan took Kenny lightly by the elbow, leading him further down the hall and around a corner. “Billy the Kid’s not gonna lead you off a cliff. I told you I’m gonna help you make your name today. And I’m always good to my word.”
They had stopped in front of another room. The window was in the door here, instead of to the side of it. The room itself was clean and well lit, more suited to interviews than interrogations. A young man sat at a table inside, with a red bandana around his neck, a can of Coca-Cola at his elbow and the torn-off ring top on his index finger. Like Kim, the victim, he wore his greasy brown hair down to his shoulders. A yellow smiley face t-shirt peeked out between the straps of his denim overalls. His own face was round and milk-fed, with a sprinkling of acne on his forehead. An older man’s beer belly was attached to his scrawny teenage frame. But what struck Kenny was a restless alertness in the boy’s beady dark eyes, the tapping foot in an Earth shoe and the way he kept turning the ring top on his finger, testing the sharpness of the edge with the pad of his thumb.
“What’s this?” Kenny asked.
Somehow “what” seemed more appropriate than “who.”
“Our star witness, counselor. His name is Joseph Tolliver, but everyone calls him J. Or Joey T.”
“And who is he?”
“The son of a police officer from the city, who moved out here a few years ago. Originally from Queens, I believe. Like yourself.”
Kenny turned and cocked an eyebrow. “And how did he come to be a witness in this case?”
“Simple. He told his father what he saw last night, and his father told me.”
“And what is it that he saw, detective?” The knot of Kenny’s tie suddenly seemed too snug against his larynx.
“He saw Delaney Patterson go in the woods with Kim and then come out a few minutes later without her,” Rattigan said. “About a quarter after eight. Fifteen minutes before Kim is supposed to be home, a half dozen blocks away.”
“Which fits in with our timeline. Maybe a little too well.”
“What’s your problem, counselor?” Rattigan tucked his chin down. “I’m handing this to you on a silver platter.”
“That’s what worries me. I won’t suborn a witness and abet perjury. How credible is this young man anyway?”
“I already told you. He’s the son of a cop.”
Kenny snorted. Some of the worst bullies and youngest alcoholics he’d known at St. Augustine’s were the sons of police and corrections officers. He studied this Joey T. more carefully through the glass, not sure if this was a one-way too. The boy stopped rubbing his thumb along the edge of the ring and then picked his nose. He studied the result and then met Kenny’s eye with a faintly insolent half smile.
“And how did he just happen to be in the woods behind the football field?” Kenny asked.
“Well…” Rattigan gave a good-natured wheeze that never quite turned into a laugh. “That’s where it gets a little bit tricky.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“This is the real world, counselor. When people are hanging around areas where criminal activity takes place, it’s not usually because they’re looking for a quiet place to do their homework.”
“All right. Out with it.”
The detective sucked his teeth and winced a little. “Could be worse. We think he might have been mixed up in buying and selling drugs like the rest of them. Which is why he would’ve been there, waiting to buy from Patterson as well. But he’s basically a good kid.”
Inside the room, Joey Tolliver made a casual flicking motion with his fingers and then took a long sip of his Coke.
“A good kid,” Kenny repeated. “Has he ever been arrested?”
“Not as an adult. He’s just seventeen. Anything that happened before would be sealed as part of his juvenile record.”
“And what’s in his juvenile record?”
“Kid stuff.” Rattigan showed capped front teeth as he curled his lip. “Breaking into people’s houses. Penny-ante pot dealing. The defense would never even know to ask.”
“I’m asking.”
“And I just told you.” Rattigan suddenly turned angry. “This isn’t The Bells of St. Mary’s and you ain’t Bing fucking Crosby. All right?”
“I just don’t want to be surprised.” Kenny sniffed, trying to stand his ground. “We’re talking about the depraved murder of a child. It’s going to keep being in the news for months. Someone is going to spend the rest of their life in prison for it. We have to make damned sure we get it right.”
Rattigan placed a finger firmly against Kenny’s chest.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I heard you were studying for the clergy, so let me put this in a way you can understand. This is what we do here. It’s why we have a saying: ‘We deal with
our little demons so we can beat the devil.’”
“I’m not naïve, detective. I just want to know what kind of demon we’re dealing with.”
“We’re dealing with someone who witnessed the murder of a blond-haired blue-eyed little girl and is going to help us make someone pay for it.”
“I thought you said he only saw Patterson go into the woods with Kim and come out without her.”
“He’s only just started talking.” Rattigan’s eyes seemed to dim behind his lenses. “Who knows what else he’ll give us?”
Kenny lowered his voice and turned his back to the door, in case the boy could read lips. “Are we absolutely sure Mr. Tolliver wasn’t more involved himself?”
“This is a fine young man, who’s made a few minor mistakes and wants to straighten himself out. So what we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna white-hat him and ride off into glory. And then you’re going to thank me every day for the rest of your life. Remember what we said: whatever it takes.”
Kenny turned and saw Joey still smiling at him. As if he’d already seen the woman Kenny intended to marry dancing somewhere without her clothes on.
“What happened to this poor little girl was the worst thing that’s happened here in years.” Rattigan was poking him more sharply now. “It’s a nightmare not just for her family, but for everyone else’s. Even with us keeping this fucked-up thing with the leaves and twigs out of the press, mothers are afraid to let their kids out of their sight. People are locking their doors. This is how homes lose their value. You put away this smoke and let people sleep sound again, you’ll be made for life.”
“I’m not doing this job just to make a name for myself, detective.” Kenny waved Rattigan’s finger aside.
“Hey, me too.” The detective raised his hands in mock innocence. “All I’m saying is, it’d be nice to find yourself sitting behind the DA’s desk someday. Am I right?”
“I just don’t want to white-hat the wrong man.”
“Oh for the love of God.” Rattigan had one hand on the doorknob and the other on Kenny’s back, pushing but not that hard. “We have a whole system to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
5
AUGUST
2017
Lourdes entered the apartment with a hand on her holster.
“I have a report of suspicious activity at this location,” she announced. “Sir, keep your hands where I can see them and don’t move without my permission. I have a warrant to search the premises.”
She cased the bedroom, checked the closet, and hit the bathroom. She emerged two minutes later wearing her old blue uniform shirt and police hat and nothing else, except for a pair of off-duty handcuffs hanging off her fingertips.
“Sir, get over on that couch and assume the position,” she told Mitchell Vogliano. “That’s an order from the New York City Police Department.”
“My day was fine, Lourdes, how was yours?” Mitchell looked up from the living room table, where his files were in orderly stacks.
“Sir, when I need your mouth, I’ll let you know. Now just lie on your back and put your hands above your head.”
He complied with a head shake as she snapped the bracelets on his wrists and straddled his thighs.
Some of the more macho guys she worked with gave her shit about moving in with a skinny pale lawyer with a long nose, a high forehead, and no butt to speak of. At times, she was puzzled about what she was doing with him herself. Most of her previous men—and there’d been a lot—were your crazysexycool bad boy types. Mitchell was a softer proposition. A nice Italiano from Bay Ridge who’d gone to Cardozo Law School, loved his parents, hated the Mafia, and was happier handling white-collar cases than her kind of street crimes at the Brooklyn DA’s office. More than once, she’d found herself looking over while he was making dinner for her and wondering when she was going to start getting restless with him. Or maybe she just didn’t trust anyone who acted that good. But then he’d show he could be hard as well and that would keep her satisfied, at least for a while.
“Okay, I’m gonna search you now to see if you have a weapon.” She unzipped his fly and started fishing around. “What the hell do you call this?”
“Not much. My girlfriend’s been working all the time.”
She reached in. “Is this thing loaded?”
“What does it look like?”
“Sir, I am going to ask you to submit to a field test.” She undid the buttons of her uniform shirt. “You have the right to remain silent while I administer it.”
“What’s the charge?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.” She took him in hand and rubbed the best part of him against where she was getting warm and soft. “By the way, you have the right to an attorney.”
“I am an attorney.”
“Santo y bueno. Well and good.”
She took a deep breath like she was standing at the edge of a seventy-degree pool on a broiling day, not worrying about her hair or how her butt looked, and then slowly guided him in. As her senses started to fill, she heard him gasp and groan.
“Uh-oh, am I crushing you?” She raised her hips.
“No, stay right where you are.” He touched her sides, settling her back onto him. “Give me all of you. Are you using…”
“Just shut up and fuck me, Mitchell. Okay?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to a small bead of perspiration forming on his high, pale forehead. He laughed as she began to grind. Humping away the cares of the day. Your faithful public servant on the job.
“Kiss me,” Mitchell said, soulful brown eyes staring up imploringly.
She dive-bombed him with her lips and then put a hand over his mouth. Getting down to some serious wild-ass humping as he grew firmer and stronger inside her. They wrestled, chest to chest, thighs on thighs, getting good and sweaty until she felt herself about to come. Then wouldn’t let herself. Give me all of you, he said. But what would that leave for her?
She started to sit up, to feel more in control.
“Hey, where you going?”
He looped his cuffed hands around the back of her neck, and pulled her back down into the pleasurable chaos again. Where he could get to places deep inside her that no one else could reach. Terrifying her with the thought of losing control again. She bucked and squirmed, not wanting to yield that easily. She’d seen what happened to other women who gave up everything and never really came back to what they were. Not her. No way. Except for maybe right now. When her brain was switching off, time had lost its meaning, and she heard herself cry out like a woman about to drown, going under and joining the rush of life beneath the surface.
“Guau.” She threw her head back after they were done, damp ringlets sticking to her temples. “Now that’s what I call … decent.”
“That’s big of you, Lourdes.”
“No, it was big of you.” She rolled off him and smiled, not the first time she’d said it. “Least it was until a second ago.”
“So does this mean you had a great day or a shitty one?”
“Why does it mean anything?” She sat up, deliberately not looking at him. “Maybe I just came home and felt like getting laid.”
She started to button her shirt, glimpsing the lights of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge glittering across New York Harbor, connecting the land mass of Brooklyn to Staten Island. There were some definite drawbacks to living in a fifth-floor walk-up, in a Bay Ridge apartment building owned and managed by Mitchell’s uncle, but she had to admit you could not beat that view.
“Come on, Lourdes.” Mitchell reached after her as she stood up. “What gives? You only want to throw down like that when you want to celebrate something or you want to forget.”
“I think I need a drink.”
She went into the kitchen, conscious of his eyes on her ass, as she pulled down on her sweat-stuck shirttails.
“There’s still chicken in the refrigerator,” he called after her. “On the off chance that you might want to eat some
thing first.”
“Fucking Nassau County, man,” she said, letting the cool air waft over her as she studied the leftovers and the half-empty Chardonnay bottle on the top shelf.
“What about it?” She could hear him zipping up behind her.
“I told you about that woman washed up in Far Rockaway.”
“Yeah, they had it on New York 1 today at the office. Nothing about rocks in the mouth.”
“Yeah, we’re holding that back. But fucking Nassau County Police called our chief of department, tryna say it’s their case.”
“Wha?”
His white boy impression of a hood rat squawk made her laugh despite the fact that she’d been ready to punch through a wall a half hour ago. “I got the message right after I left the ME’s office,” she said. “They want everything we have so far.”
“On what basis?”
“They say it looks like a couple of cases they have on their side of the Nassau-Queens border.”
“Like a pattern?” She heard him sit up abruptly. “For real?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. ‘How come this is the first we’re hearing about it?’” She started to shiver and took the chicken out. “But as soon as I started asking questions, everyone was like, ‘Whoa, whoa, Robles. Don’t start throwing around “serial killer.” We don’t know what this is. We’re just looking into it.’ So I don’t know what they’ve got on their side. I don’t know if it’s more bodies found wrapped in plastic, or more stones down the throat. I just know no one’s telling me shit at a time when IAB’s totally on my back. And I don’t like it.”
She put the leftovers on the kitchen counter and stared discontentedly at the carcass in Saran Wrap. “And it looks like you took the skin off this bird. What’s up with that, Mitchell?”
“You said, ‘Chicken skin is the devil’s work.’”
“You tryna say I’m fat?” She parked herself on a high stool and rocked from side to side, conspicuously keeping her back to him.
“No…”
“Sheeit.” She plucked off the wrapping with her chipped red nails. “How y’all going to feel if my ass ever did get pregnant?”
Sunrise Highway Page 4
