The unknown man then leaned over and spoke in low tones to Grimes. To DiMaggio, it looked as if they were debating whether to have steak or fish at a restaurant. Suddenly, Grimes addressed the room. “Well, that’s all there is for now. Thank you, gentlemen, for your time. We’ll convene again next week if the situation warrants.”
Everyone got up to go. There were handshakes and small conversations. Grimes caught DiMaggio leaving. “My office in five minutes.”
DiMaggio let out a deep breath as he thought, looks like they decided on skewered pig.
DiMaggio stepped out of City Hall into a beautiful crisp day. The kind of day that, years back, would have instinctively triggered a reach into his pocket to pull out a Marlboro and light up. Instead, he folded a stick of spearmint gum into his mouth and decided to walk over to One Police Plaza.
Six minutes later, he entered Grimes’ office. It was obvious to him that Grimes and the man in the black suit had been driven over in the chief’s car, because they were already seated at the small table to the right of the chief’s desk. DiMaggio noticed a single birthday card on the credenza behind the desk – the large, flowery kind with sentiments of love usually sent by a wife to her husband next to a picture of Grimes with his young pretty wife and kid.
“Take a seat, Mike,” Grimes said.
“Wow, how old is your son now, Chief?”
“Eight.” Grimes turned to the picture. “That was taken last year when he was seven.”
“He’s almost got the height advantage on you already. He’s going be a ballplayer, maybe B-ball.” Looking at the photo, DiMaggio couldn’t see where the kid got his height from; the Chief was maybe 5’5” and his wife was a peanut. Maybe the milkman was tall.
“Kid’s got a good arm.”
“He’s eight years old; sign him up for little league,” DiMaggio said.
The other man in the office cleared his throat, obviously not interested in the pleasantries of the moment. DiMaggio waited to be introduced to the other guy but it never happened.
DiMaggio took his cue. “What did you want to see me about, Chief?”
“Mike, do you really think the doctor’s office upstairs is linked to this in anyway?”
“Just a hunch, Chief.”
“A hunch?” The man in the black suit asked.
DiMaggio offered his hand. “We haven’t been introduced, Mike DiMaggio.”
His hand stayed on the tabletop. “Smith.”
The chief continued, “So you have nothing solid linking the offices upstairs?”
DiMaggio was thrown off guard. What is the agenda here? he thought. Why are they interested in this doctor? Even though he knew that bristling the chief of detectives was a surefire way to suddenly find yourself working for the chief of patrol pounding a beat in the Far Rockaway precinct, he decided to throw career caution to the wind. “What’s this about? Why are you so interested in where I am going?”
“Mike, Mike. Listen. All we are saying is if you don’t have to go there, DON’T GO THERE! Copy?”
“Is that an order?”
“Mike, consider it strongly suggested.”
DiMaggio looked over at Smith. “I think I understand, sir.”
“Good, good. By the way, there’s a joint anti-terrorism task force in Paris looking for a liaison officer… in Paris, coming up soon. I’d like to award that to someone I can trust.” Then the Chief just sat there, and DiMaggio could almost feel his eyes bore right through him. DiMaggio knew that last bone he threw him was supposed to make this all go away, but Mike had never liked French cooking all that much.
The moment stretched on until it became uncomfortable, so DiMaggio said, “Well, if there is nothing else, I’d better get back to the squad.” He then turned and walked out. In the elevator, just one thought kept reverberating off the walls of his brain: they care more about the live shrink than the dead judge.
Give Us This Day Page 48
