by Gerry Boyle
Carmine Street. The West Village. Scrawled in the margin of the letter were two words: Fix this.
There was one more.
This time the headline was smaller, one column from the Times, probably inside the metro section. A woman had been dragged into an alley and raped on East 82nd Street, near Third Avenue. It was a little after nine o’clock at night; she’d just left a coffee bar.
She had been beaten and was hysterical, the story said, but still was able to supply a description of the man, including a distinctive dragon tattoo on his left shoulder. Police said they were not aware of any similar assaults in the area. The victim was described as a thirty-two-year-old investment banker who lived in the neighborhood. The date was August 4, 1988.
I turned the page. An arrest.
The story was from the Post. The headline: “Rapist Nabbed.” His name was George Drague. He was twenty-two. Police had arrested him August 8 at 26 Manida Street, in the Hunt’s Point section of the Bronx. A detective said a tip led to the arrest. Drague did not resist. And then there was this paragraph:
The arrest of one alleged rapist was the latest in the police effort to combat what Manhattan District Attorney John Fiore has called “a Manhattan crime wave.” One rapist down; many muggers, robbers, carjackers, and murderers to go.
I turned the clip over. An adhesive note was attached to the back. In a rapid scrawl it said, She keeps calling. Please resolve. There was a phone number. The name Kim Albert.
And that was it.
15
Sitting on the kid’s bed, I flipped through the sheaf again, paused at Butch’s note.
Did I see a pattern? Sure I did. They were all violent crimes. They took place in Manhattan. The victims were mainstream, the crimes the kind that struck fear in the rest of us. And they seemed to involve victims, victims’ families, who would not go away. People like Butch.
What had Butch been doing? Was he recruiting other disgruntled crime victims? People who felt maltreated by the cops or the courts?
Or by Johnny Fiore?
Butch could have put his case in the stack. Somebody who sees his wife’s murderer walk? He could go right to the top.
But what was Butch thinking? He was a cop. He knew that in a city like New York, crime victims outnumbered the criminals. He knew that for every crime solved, two were left wide open. He knew that no matter how much cops did, it was never enough. You got a conviction, went back to your office, and the phone would be ringing.
A support group for cop-haters and complainers? It would have to meet in Madison Square Garden.
Then it hit me.
These cases all were from the same six-week period in the summer of 1988. Butch fit that, too.
What was the date of Leslie’s murder? I couldn’t remember exactly, but it was late July, because in mid-August, Butch and Leslie were going to Vermont for a week. I remembered saying I couldn’t picture him floating around in a lake someplace. He said the only people he saw floating were facedown.
He had a way with words, Butch did. And he knew a story when he saw one. I did, too, and this one was waiting, just out of reach.
Like the van outside the window. But when I got up and looked again, it was gone.
Christina brought out sandwiches—turkey on dark bread with assorted cheeses on the side. She put the plate on the chest table in front of the television, with two more bottles of beer. I reached for the remote.
“Are you sure?” she said.
I hit the button, the screen popped, and there I was. Larger than life.
It was a still shot. I looked angry, trapped in the revolving door at the Meridien.
“Questions remain,” the anchor was saying, “about what role, if any, was played in the killing by this man, identified by police as Jack McMorrow, a former reporter for the New York Times. McMorrow was questioned for several hours by New York police today. Police sources say they are not sure whether he was an innocent bystander in the plot to assassinate New York mayor Johnny Fiore. Or not.”
I disappeared, replaced by a solemn woman in a police uniform.
“We don’t have all the answers,” she said. “I can assure you the investigation is continuing. Significant progress is being made.”
I hit the button, playing the TV like some grim video game.
Fiore, alive and smiling. Butch, with more hair. Then me, snarling at the camera. Golden, the ashen-faced public advocate. Then Randi Fiore in mourning, dressed in black, getting out of a black limo. The wooden-faced young man was said to be John Fiore Jr., who had rushed home from graduate school in California, where he was getting his MBA. The Fiores, who were rumored to share little with the mayor other than their surname, looked more tired than devastated.
Then a blonde announcer, her eyebrows knit in a parody of concern.
“The cause of death has not been released,” she said, “but sources close to the investigation say it appears the mayor died of a single stab wound. The knife appears to have entered under his left arm, and punctured his heart.”
Next channel.
“Janet, it appears to have been an almost classic commando kill. Sources here say the likelihood of a layman knowing precisely where to land such a blow is very slim. But I’ve been told that police and military personnel, including homicide detectives like Butch Casey and Green Beret–type soldiers, would know the heart is located very close to the left underarm, approximately three to four inches inside the chest cavity. Death is almost instantaneous. The victim, one police source told me—and this is a quote, Janet—‘doesn’t make a sound.’”
And then my friend Stephanie.
“David, police are proceeding very carefully with this investigation, knowing full well that a misstep at this point could prove costly at the time of trial. They interviewed Casey’s friend, Jack McMorrow, at length, but did not take the former reporter into custody. But WNYC News has learned that the New York Times also has interviewed McMorrow at length and will carry that story in tomorrow’s editions, which will go online momentarily. Sources at the Times say McMorrow spoke to reporters and editors there for more than an hour in what some see as a desperate attempt to avoid prosecution. Back to you.”
“Damn,” I said.
And still more.
“Casey remains heavily guarded at Riker’s Island. McMorrow, meanwhile, left his hotel in the company of this woman, seen running for a waiting limousine outside the Parker-Meridien Hotel in Midtown today. Some city officials are demanding to know why McMorrow was released at all, though police say they know the Maine man’s whereabouts and assure the public that he has not left the city.”
I stared at the screen.
“You’re pretty blurry,” I said.
“Yeah,” Christina said. “I could be anybody.”
“They’ll track you down anyway. There was a car outside,” I said. “Probably police. They’ll leak your name.”
“That’s to be expected, I suppose.”
“Maybe I should go someplace else, Christina.”
She looked at me.
“Why?”
“You could get sucked into this thing.”
“But you can’t just be out there all alone, Jack.”
“I can find a place.”
“It’s not safe. You could be hurt. Or worse. Nobody knows you’re here. And they can’t get in, anyway.”
“Yeah, but the press is going to squeeze this story like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
“It’s okay,” Christina said.
“Why do you want to take that chance?” I said.
She leaned toward me, her big eyes opened wide.
“Because I always—” Christina began, and then she paused, smiled gently, and touched my arm with her finger.
“Just because,” she said.
So we sat there, the picture of marital boredom, drinking beer and watching the tube. President Clinton extended his condolences from the Rose Garden. Dan Rather narrated an hour-long retrospective on J
ohnny Fiore’s life.
Halfway through, I got up to change my bloody shirt, but stretched out on Philippe’s bed.
And awakened in silence and darkness.
I panicked, then remembered Christina and all of the rest. I shuddered. Looked at my watch, the glowing hands showing 10:35.
I sat up.
And saw it.
A streak, like a shooting star. It moved in the window across the street, then vanished.
16
I rolled out of the bed and moved quickly to the corner by the window.
Listened.
Waited.
Stood perfectly still.
The window was open and a warm breeze wafted in. It carried the sound of sirens somewhere in the distance. The rattle of traffic, the rumble of trains. The scream of a nighthawk and then—
A cough.
It was a single sound, like a smoker clearing his throat.
I watched. The window was dark and I couldn’t make out anyone. And then there was a sniff.
For the next fifteen minutes, I stood there. Was it Ramirez? Donatelli? The next shift of detectives? Would they stay there all night and watch me sleep? How could they tell I was still in the room? Did they have infrared goggles for the New York police?
I moved slowly away from the window, then eased over until I was behind Philippe’s telescope. I crouched and peered into the eyepiece. Saw nothing at all. Reached for the end of the scope and pried off the lens cover. Peered again. The darkness was more palpable, and after a moment I could make out the lines of a window frame. I pressed the end of the scope gently and it swiveled away. I pulled it back. Pointed it at the window and bent to the smaller sighting scope. The window was in view. I moved to the other eyepiece.
Squinted. Waited. Took a deep breath and felt my neck start to cramp. Waited some more.
The cigarette glowed.
I could see the vague outline of head and shoulders. And then the figure moved. The head bowed. The movement was familiar. A glint of glass. A round disk. Another scope.
I eased slowly to the floor.
Had he seen me? Did he know I was watching him? How long had he been there?
I thought of the police papers with their NYPD stamp. In daylight, could he read them from that distance? Could he tell what they were? Who was he?
I waited five minutes, sitting on the floor. The person in the other window sniffed three times, coughed once. I moved away from the window, put on my bloody shirt, and walked to Christina’s open door.
From the doorway, I could see her. She was sprawled on her back on a big wrestling mat of a bed. There was a sheet across her legs, below her knees.
I stepped into the room, to the side of the bed. Hesitating for a moment, I reached down and touched Christina’s bare shoulder. She awakened, not with a start, but with a sleepy, sultry smile.
“Don’t just stand there, McMorrow,” she said. “Climb in. Climb right in.”
She rolled toward me and took my arm in both hands and started to pull.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Of course you can, McMorrow. We’ve got condoms. Come to me, baby.”
“No, I mean, I can’t. Not now. I need to get outside.”
Christina’s eyes sharpened slightly. Her tug eased.
“You want the keys?”
“No, I want to go out the fire escape.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody’s watching the front of the building. I don’t want him to see me leave.”
She rolled onto her back again, but didn’t pull up the sheet.
“How long? I’ll wait for you.”
I smiled.
“I don’t know. You’ll hear me.”
“And then I’ll feel you,” Christina said.
Her hips gave a little roll of anticipation. I looked past her to the window and swallowed hard. That bridge would be waiting.
I slipped my shoes off and stepped onto the bed. The bottom of the window was barred with a steel grate, held shut with a padlock. The key was in it, and I twisted the lock off and pushed the grate out. It swung on hinges like a door. The bars of the fire escape were cold on my feet. The stairs led to a ladder that led down to the roof of another building. I walked slowly, holding the narrow rail with one hand, my shoes with the other. My steps made a faint, hollow bong. At the bottom of the last flight, I paused. Listened. Heard the nighthawks and a siren and the whine of a mosquito.
It took a minute to find the ladder from the roof to the ground. I kicked something metallic and it skidded on the gravel. I crouched and listened. Heard nothing. Moved around a brick chimney and found the ladder. Swung around and started down.
On the ground, something scurried and then was gone. A cat? A rat? I waited and then walked down a pathway between the buildings toward a dim black arch. Under the arch was a door. It was steel. The bolts were big and heavy and felt medieval. I pulled a bolt across and opened it, put my shoes back on, and stepped out onto the street.
I was around the corner from the elevator entrance, standing by a windowless brick wall. One streetlight glowed dimly two blocks up. In the faint orange light, nothing moved.
I walked away from the front of Christina’s building to the next corner, crossed the street, which was cobblestone with asphalt patches and railroad tracks that shone like scars. Broken glass ground under my shoes.
At the next corner, I turned left again. There was one car on the street, but it had been stripped of its wheels and sat on the pavement like a legless beetle. I walked faster, broke into a trot as I crossed the next street. The bridge lights were straight ahead, the East River somewhere in the darkness to my left. I came to the next corner and stopped.
Poked my head around. Waited.
This was the end of the building closest to the window where the man was watching. Had he been dropped off? Had he walked here from somewhere else? Was he alone, or was someone waiting for him?
I eased my way along the wall. Walked slowly, paused every few steps to listen. A hundred feet from the corner, I heard it.
A voice in the darkness.
A radio.
It was ahead of me, close to the wall. There was an entryway, a single opening, one truck wide. I inched along like a man on a ledge and the radio noise grew louder. It was a talk show. I heard the words Yankees and Cleveland. I slowed. And the radio went off.
I froze.
“Yeah,” a man’s voice said. “Right . . . Police stuff . . . ’Cause he could see them . . . Yeah, through the scope. They’re great. Use ’em for bird watching or some goddamn thing . . . You could see the stamp . . . Uh-huh . . . I don’t know . . . He’s upstairs. Still sitting on him . . . Yeah, shacked up with some babe. A goddamn fox . . . I wouldn’t kick her out of bed . . . Yeah, from the hotel . . . That’s her name? Never heard of her. No, nobody else. . . . This neighborhood? You kidding? It’s like a graveyard . . . Yeah. Okay. Just say the word and we’ll get it done.”
I pressed against the wall. The voice stopped. The radio came back on.
He’s never gonna recover from surgery and the Yankees knew it and the Red Sox knew it and the Mariners knew it, so why is it the Baltimore front office, in their infinite wisdom . . .
I moved toward the corner of the opening. Got my foot within a foot of it. Within six inches. Eased my shoulders along the bricks. And then I heard something else.
Car springs heaving. A grunt. Shoes scuffing on the pavement.
And then a sigh.
A trickling sound.
And a rivulet of urine running across the pavement and into the gutter.
I waited for the trickling to slow and then stop. The flow of urine subsided gradually. I heard the shoes scuff again, and then a gritty sound, close. Closer. He was coming out of the driveway. He was walking this way.
Looking around, I hesitated, then stepped gingerly backward. There was a doorway, but it was thirty feet away. I moved slowly, watching the opening.
And then froz
e.
He came out onto the street on the far side of the opening, a stocky figure in dark clothing. I pressed like a spider against the bricks. He turned. Looked up the street. Stood there for a moment as lights appeared in the distance. He had his hands on his hips. The car drew closer until I could see headlights, hear the sputter of a rough-idling motor. He still was at the corner of the building. As the car approached, he stepped back into the garage bay, but still peered out.
The car stopped fifty yards away. I saw the guy reach behind him and take out a gun. He held it close to his leg. The car didn’t move.
He waited. I waited. The lights fell away as the car turned left and headed in the direction of the bridges.
“Goddamn mutts,” the man said.
And wheeled completely around. Stopped and looked down the dark street toward me. Past me. I held my breath as the Boxer turned and walked back into the alley.
17
I eased past Christina like she was a ticking bomb. Made it to Philippe’s room, carrying my shoes. Then I took one of the cards out of my pocket, read it by the glow of a clock. Took the cell phone from the charger and punched in the number.
It rang once.
“Yeah,” a woman’s voice said.
“I’m trying to reach Detective Donatelli or—”
“Jesus, where the hell are you?”
“Who’s this?”
“Ramirez.”
Away from the phone, I heard her muffled voice say, “It’s McMorrow.” I eased myself up the wall until I was standing by the window.
“Where are you?” I said.
“Where am I? I’m at Midtown South,” she barked. “Where are you?”
“I’m with a friend. Staying with a friend. Where’s Donatelli?”
“On the road. Looking for you. What happened to SoHo?”
“I don’t know. What happened to it?”
“You were supposed to be going there.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody,” Martinez said.
“The Times,” I said.
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”
