3.
"Is that him?" Jack said as a new voice spoke from the cassette player's speaker.
Jorge shook his big head. He was dressed for business—his workday started when the offices began emptying—in a cutoff sweatshirt that exposed his thick arms to the shoulder.
The two of them sat in the cramped extra bedroom of Jorge's apartment that doubled as a business office. Down the hall his wife was clearing dinner while his two sons played the latest Mario; the apartment was redolent of spicy meat.
Jack fast-forwarded the tape, stopping and starting until he heard a new voice.
"How about this guy?"
Another head shake. "No. Not Ramirez."
"Better be soon," Jack said. "We're getting to the end of the tape."
Jorge had had one of his cousins slip the flyers under all the doors in Ramirez's building. The overkill had been necessary to keep Ramirez off guard. The flyer used the Hudak Realty letterhead but substitute a voice mail number Jack had rented, saying it was the direct line to David Johns, the Hudak agent who had an exclusive on this property. Jack had left an outgoing message saying that Mr. Johns was with a client and would get back to you as soon as possible.
He'd brought a tape of all the calls to Jorge's apartment.
"Maybe he's not interested," Jorge said.
"If what you told me about him is true," Jack said, "he'll call. He won't be able to resist. Just look at all these other—"
"There!" Jorge said as someone new spoke from the tape player. "That's him. That's the hijo de puta!"
Jack didn't know much Spanish, but he knew what that meant. He leaned back and listened to Ramirez's smooth, lightly accented voice. Obviously he'd been in the country longer than Jorge.
"Yes, Mr. Johns. I would like very much to meet with you about the property you describe in your flyer. I must leave town this weekend on a business trip, and I wish to inspect the property before I depart. "
Ramirez left his office and home phone numbers.
Smooth, Jack thought. He's probably been by the place and seen it from the sidewalk. He knows it's a steal and he wants it. So he uses a phony trip to push for a quick look-see without appearing anxious.
From what Jack had gathered from Jorge, Mr. Paco Ramirez fancied himself a wheeler-dealer, especially in real estate. Liked to pick up bargains in the current upmarket and turn them around for a quick profit. Guys like him were always on the lookout for someone in a hurry to sell. Jack's flyer had served up a deal he was sure Mr. Ramirez was salivating over.
"All right," Jack said. "He's nibbling the bait. Now we've got to set the hook and reel him in."
He used Jorge's phone to call Ramirez's office. The man was on the line only seconds after Jack told the receptionist he was David Johns. After a little polite small talk, Ramirez cut to the chase and they set up an appointment to inspect the property the following morning at nine sharp.
"What do we do now?" Jorge asked.
"'We' don't do anything," Jack told him. "From now on it's just me. The most important thing for you to do is stay away from that town house. Ramirez gets one hint that you're involved, and he'll be gone. Just stay here tomorrow morning and answer the phone. I may have to make a call. I'll ask questions, and you answer them anyway you want—give me the weather report, I don't care. I just want a voice on the other end."
Jorge pursed his thick lips. "Esplain to me again, por favor, how this will get my money back."
"Okay. Once more. I'm going to get your money by convincing Ramirez to give me a big cash deposit on the town house."
Jorge shook his head. "But he is no fool, Mr. Jack."
"I'm sure he's not. But I know his type: He gets off on screwing people. He likes to find a little guy, or someone at a disadvantage, and take them for all he can. He could have afforded all along to pay you for your work, but he chose not to. Why? Because he discovered a weak spot—your illegal relatives working for you—and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to take advantage of that. It's a power trip."
"You know others like Ramirez?"
Jack nodded. "Hell, yes. They keep me in business. I've become a sort of expert on these guys. I'm going to turn Ramirez's game back on him. I'm going to put a sweet deal in front of him and let him think he's screwing someone in the bargain."
"But cash? He will not give you cash."
"He will if he thinks I don't want it."
Jorge was shaking his head again. Jack had noticed him doing that a lot lately.
"Trust me," Jack said. "Even if it doesn't work, at least we'll have some fun with Ramirez."
Jorge's scowl said fun was the last thing on his mind.
4.
The phone rang as Alicia was readying to call it a day. Raymond was gone already so she picked up herself.
"This is Detective Will Matthews. Is that you, Alicia?"
"Yes," she said as brightly as she could. "How are you?"
Oh, hell. More bad news?
She'd had another call from the hospital attorney this morning, asking her if she'd had any second thoughts about her child molestation charge against Floyd Stevens. Now what?
"I'm fine," he said. "Well, the reason I called is I may have some good news for you."
"About Stevens?"
"The one and only."
"He's pleading guilty?"
"No, but almost as good. I'd like to tell you all about it over dinner."
Alicia felt her hackles rise. "Will… if this involves the charges I brought against him, don't you think—?"
"Nothing directly to do with your charges. If you insist, I'll tell you now, but if you don't have plans, I'd prefer to do it over an early dinner. I promise, you won't be disappointed."
Alicia hesitated. First lunch, then dinner, then… what?
I don't have time for this.
But if he'd been checking into Stevens on his own time and had come up with something helpful, how could she refuse?
"Okay, then," she said. "Dinner it is. When and where?" He asked if she liked Italian. When she told him she did, he gave her the address of a trattoria on Seventh Avenue about ten blocks up from the Center. He'd meet her there in half an hour.
Good news, he'd said. She hoped so. She could dearly use some.
5.
"You must eat here often," Alicia said as the two of them settled into a booth built for four.
Alicia had arrived early. Normally she would have walked. But despite Jack's assurance that no one would bother her before Monday's meeting with the lawyers, she'd taken a cab.
Will showed up a few minutes later. The maitre d' had greeted him with a big smile, and three people from the bar had called hello.
He shrugged. "I guess if I hang out anyplace, it's here. But we're talking once or twice a week."
Is this where you were last night? she wondered. If you'd been walking behind me instead of Jack, Thomas and his bully boys would be in jail right now and this whole mess would be settled.
"I thought cops hung out at cop bars."
"They do. I spent a couple of years funneling money into Midtown. South's favorite watering hole, but you know… you get tired of cop talk all the time. At least I do. Here I'm just Will Matthews, who happens to be a cop."
A waiter stopped by with a basket of rolls and long anorectic Italian bread sticks. After checking with her, Will ordered a bottle of Chianti classico, then he leaned forward.
"Let's get to the latest on Floyd Stevens."
He held out the breadbasket and she took a bread stick.
"Please." She bit off the end of the stick with a decisive snap.
"I've been tailing him."
"They let you do that?" she said, surprised. "I mean with all the other crime going on—"
"I wish. No, I did this on my own time."
"Your own time?" If Alicia had been surprised seconds ago, she was shocked now. "But why?"
"I told you. I used to work Vice, and I know these creeps. They're out of control. You
interrupted him, so I figure he might not have gotten what he wanted. And that meant he'd be on the prowl again real soon. So as soon as I got off duty, I made it to the Upper West Side and hung around outside his place, waiting for him to come in or go out."
"And?"
"Last night he went out. Walked down to the garage where he keeps his car and drove straight to the Minnesota Strip."
"What's that?"
"A place you'll probably never see. It's sort of a sex supermarket, full of prostitutes of all ages and all sexes."
"All sexes? I know of only two."
"Well, there are the in-betweens. Let's see… how do I put this… guys who've been changed on top—you know, breast implants and hormone treatments on the skin—but remain fully equipped below… they're a hot item on the Strip."
"Wonderful."
Will shrugged. "They're a pretty pathetic crew down there, but personally it doesn't bother me. Whatever gets you through the night. But when the pimps start putting kids out for the chicken hawks—"
"Chicken hawks?" This is like a new language, Alicia thought. "What's that?"
"Most times it refers to gays who cruise for very young male prostitutes, but I use it for anybody, straight or bent, looking for too-young stuff."
"Chickens," Alicia said, feeling queasy. "Young, tender, defenseless."
She looked at Will. So clean-cut, almost boyish-looking with that short blond hair; his job put him in almost daily contact with humankind at its worst, yet he seemed to have remained untainted somehow.
"That's what they like. And Floyd Stevens is one of them. I followed him. He knew exactly where he was going—in fact, I think he must have called ahead, because there was somebody waiting at a corner with a very young-looking girl when he pulled up. The kid got into the car and the two of them drove away."
The bread stick crumbled in Alicia's hand as her anger flared. "And you let him?"
"Of course not. But I didn't want to complicate things by nabbing him myself—didn't want that lawyer raising any questions of entrapment or harassment—so as I followed him into the dock area, I patched through to a couple of guys I know on Vice. They waited till he parked, snuck up on him, and caught him in the act."
"Wow will someone take him off the streets?" she said, brushing the crumbs off her lap.
"He is off the street. At least for the time being. He's locked up, charged with having sex with a minor."
"And that's your good news? Another poor kid was molested by this creep?"
"Don't you see?" Will said, looking a little hurt. "He's not going to walk away from this one. Now he's got two sexual molestation charges in one week. He can't threaten or buy his way out when the witnesses are cops. He's going to be too busy defending himself to go after you. You're off the hook."
… Off the hook…
Alicia slumped back against the padded back of the booth as the truth of Will's words seeped past her anger at Floyd Stevens.
"Oh, my God," she said softly. "You're right. He can't say he never touched Kanessa. Can't say I imagined it all and overreacted."
"And best yet," Will said. "He's going down for last night. He's going to do time."
Alicia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt as if a small planet had been lifted from her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said, looking at Will. She felt a sudden burst of warmth for this man, this good, good man. "What you did is above and beyond duty. I… I don't know what to say." Impulsively, she reached across the table and clutched his hand. "Thank you."
He shook his head. "Nailed a perv and helped a very special lady out of a jam. Trust me. The pleasure was all mine."
Alicia realized that Will had cupped her hand in both of his. She couldn't pull away now… and wasn't sure she wanted to.
The waiter's arrival with the wine broke the spell.
Will made a big display of aerating the tasting portion of the Chianti, checking its legs, sniffing it, swirling it in his mouth, doing everything but gargling with it, then he swallowed and puckered his face into an awful grimace.
"This is swill!" he told the waiter. "Take it out back and pour it down a storm drain!"
The waiter snorted. "Yeah," he said with a crooked smile. "Like you'd know."
He poured Alicia a glass, then casually added more to Will's.
"I'm like Rodney Dangerfield here," Will said, shaking his head. "No respect."
"With beer, you maybe got credentials," the waiter said. "But wine? Fuhgheddaboudit."
He left the bottle on the table and strolled away.
"You really do come here a lot."
Will laughed. "Yeah, Joey's the owner's nephew. We go way back."
Alicia sipped the wine and found the first sip a little tart, but the second wasn't so bad.
"So," she said, edging toward a question that had begun to niggle at her. "I imagine working all day and following people half the night plays havoc with your social life."
"Social life? What's that?"
"You know—friends, family, girlfriend… that sort of thing."
"It was no sacrifice, believe me. My friends didn't miss me, my folks retired to South Carolina; and as for the woman in my life"—he rotated his glass, staring into the swirling ruby fluid—"she up and left almost a year ago."
"I'm sorry," Alicia said, mentally kicking herself for prying. She fumbled for something to say. "I—I guess the long hours of being a cop are tough on a relationship."
Will grunted. "I wish that had been it. I could have handled that, maybe even worked something out. No… it was just about this time last year she went home to visit her family in Vermont—a little town called Brownsville—and ran into an old beau. They hooked up, the old sparks started burning again, and next thing I know she's on the phone telling me all about it and saying she's not coming back to New York, she's staying in Vermont and marrying this guy."
"That must have hurt," Alicia said, feeling for him. He'd delivered the story so matter-of-factly, but she sensed the lingering pain.
"That it did. Took about a million calls and even a trip to Vermont before it finally got through to me that she really meant it." He straightened and looked at her, as if shrugging off the memories. "But that was then. I got over it. Life goes on."
And now you think you should find someone else, Alicia thought. Please don't set your sights on me, Will Matthews. You've had enough trouble already.
"How about you?" he said. "How's your love life?"
Alicia echoed his earlier comment. "Love life? What's that?" She forced a smile. "Especially when you're married."
He blinked. "Married? I thought…"
For a moment she was tempted to morph her story about a traveling beau into a traveling husband, but she couldn't lie to him. Not after what he'd done for her.
"But you've already met my spouse," she said, smiling as she watched his baffled expression for a few heartbeats. Then she let him off the hook: "The Center. We're inseparable, you know."
"Oh!" He laughed. "Married to the job," he said, nodding. "I know all about that. Got a bit of that problem myself."
It's not always a problem, she thought. Sometimes it's a solution.
She could see him relax. That was good… and that was bad. He probably thought he had a clear field.
They spent the meal and perhaps an hour afterward talking, Will probing for details of her life, Alicia dodging and countering with a steady stream of questions that forced him to talk about himself.
The upshot of the evening was Alicia gathering a portrait of a decent man who liked beer, bass fishing, and basketball; a dedicated detective who'd managed—at least so far—to avoid the deep cynicism that seemed to infect most big-city cops.
And Will? As they left the restaurant, Alicia doubted he knew much more about her now than he had when he'd walked in.
As Will drove her home, Alicia watched his hands where they gripped the wheel. Strong hands, and strong arms. She wondered what those arms woul
d feel like around her. She rarely minded being alone, in fact, most of the time she was too busy to realize that she was alone.
But there came times, at night, mostly, when she felt an urge to cling to someone, to feel protective arms around her, when she simply wanted to be held.
She was feeling relaxed and safe as Will pulled to a stop in front of her apartment. And she was torn: Ask him in or not?… ask him in or not?
And then a beeper sounded.
Will checked his belt. "Not mine."
Alicia fished hers out of her shoulder bag, and felt the mood shatter as she recognized the number on the display.
Hector's floor. Only one reason they'd be calling her at this hour.
"Will, can you take me over to St. Vincent's? Fast? I mean, really fast."
He replied with squealing tires.
SATURDAY
1.
After only three hours sleep, Alicia was back in the hospital, this time in the Pediatric ICU. Little Hector Lopez had crashed last night—grand mal seizures and respiratory arrest. She and the house staff had pulled him through—just barely.
Will had hung around for hours downstairs in the waiting area. He didn't know Hector, had never laid eyes on him, yet he'd seemed genuinely concerned. Finally Alicia convinced him to go home.
He'd hugged her and wished her luck, and she'd watched him go, thinking this was someone special.
But now she was watching Hector, unconscious, a slim ribbed endotracheai tube snaking from his mouth to a larger tube, his bony chest rising and falling in time to the hissing rhythm of the ventilator at his bedside.
She heard a knock on the glass partition to her left and turned to see Harry Wolff gesturing to her from the other side. She'd called him in on consult regarding the seizure. He'd done a spinal tap. Hector's central nervous pressure had been up, and the fluid had looked hazy. Not good, not good…
Alicia stepped to the door and pulled her mask down to her chin. "Harry. What have you got?"
His expression was grim. "Candida in the CSF."
Alicia sighed. Damn. That explained the seizure. Although not a complete surprise, she'd been hoping the pediatric neurologist would find something easier to treat.
Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies Page 18
