In his typical fashion, Pat turned the whole subject upside-down. He asked very casually, "You have a gun on you?"
He was a winner, all right.
"No. I haven't carried one since that night at the pier."
"You renewed your permit."
"The man's a detective ... yes, and my driver's license and the one for the agency. The office is closed but the rent is paid up. I sublet my apartment but didn't let it go."
"Why? Why bother?"
Good question. "Some things you just never give up, pal."
"Are you planning on staying?"
"Not long-term. Not sure I could handle that dark cloud you say follows me around."
He waved for the waiter and asked for the check. "You need to crash with me?"
"No thanks. I booked a room at the Commodore." I waited a moment, then added, "I want to go over to Doolan's pad tomorrow."
"I figured as much. No problem. When you're done, we'll turn the place over to Anna, and she and her husband can loot it. Come on, I'll give you a ride to the hotel."
We walked to where he'd parked his old sedan. Pat pulled out and turned left, cruising down one of those sick streets where nobody gave a damn about anything. If you were a stranger, you'd wonder where the slopped-up jokers got the money to buy a pint and who the hell those poor old hookers were going to solicit in this neighborhood.
We were in the nowhere zone of a street that had died and hadn't been buried yet. Somehow, nobody had broken the antiquated street lamps yet and a pale yellow blob of light seemed to droop away from the poles.
"What's this, a shortcut?" I asked.
"Just cutting around some road maintenance. Besides, you ought to remember this area."
"When I left it was different."
"Nothing stays the same."
"Just this old car of yours—damn!"
"What?"
I gripped his sleeve. "Pat—hold it."
He laid on the brakes.
"Go back," I said tightly. "Between the lights."
He shifted into reverse, gassed the car backward till I told him to stop, then I jumped out and ran to the sidewalk. Behind me, his sedan squealed into a tight turn, then ran up to the curb with the headlights shining like twin theatrical spots on the body sprawled on the concrete.
She was blonde and young but the frozen grimace wiped out any prettiness she might have had. There was terror in her half-open eyes and her chin drooped into a silent death laugh. She hadn't been down more than thirty seconds because blood was still puddling from the gaping wound in her chest.
Pat checked her pulse, nodded at me, then both of us moved at the same time, running away from the body to cover both ends of the street. But there was no movement, no sounds of panicky feet or the odd noises of somebody trying to be quiet when things are closing in. It was one of those damned unlivable streets you find here and there in the city, condemned, partially dismantled, dirty, and only good as a walkway from one avenue to another—that is, if you didn't give a flying fuck for your life.
Back at the car, Pat finished calling in the kill and asked, "Nothing?"
I shook my head. "There are a dozen open basements on either side that anybody could have dropped into. You know these buildings. Those tunnels go right through to the other street."
"There are cars coming in from both sides. We may get lucky."
"No way," I told him. "These street people make a science out of disappearing." I shook a finger at the corpse. "Put the light on her hand."
Pat flashed the beam over and saw what I meant. A thin purse strap was still clutched in her fingers, the cut-off loop of it going around her wrist, the bag itself M.I.A.
The captain of Homicide swore under his breath. "Kid like that, dead—over a lousy goddamn mugging."
"Looks like he came up behind her, and she spun around when he made a grab for the purse, and he stuck her when she started to scream."
Pat thought about it a moment. "Usually this kind of mugging would be a face-to-face job."
"If he were waiting for a patsy around here, he'd have a long damn wait. No—this mugger followed her. And if she's a hooker, she doesn't belong around here, not in that spring frock."
She was maybe twenty-five, slender, and you could tell she'd had a nice shape until death twisted it into a kind of question mark that left her very physicality asking Why? The butter-color hair was long and curled and styled, the dress was a pink and white floral with short-sleeve cuffs, worn with nude panty hose and pink pumps.
"Hell, Mike, it's fifty yards to either corner. She would have heard him."
"Not if he were wearing sneakers. These bastards stay in step with the victim, but faster. She only heard her own feet. Dig her shoes—they're heavy leather heels and soles."
Before he could answer, the first squad car turned the corner. Behind it, we could hear the siren of the following one.
But for Pat's taste, they were on the slow side, and he said, "We're going to have to motivate these drivers a little more."
It was less than an hour before they were finished. The area had been covered by a search team that turned up one sodden drunk passed out in an alley, the photos had all been shot, and Pat had given all the details to the only reporter who bothered to show up, a young kid from the News. In New York, only muggings with a death involved got any notice at all.
The odd note was the arrival of a new white Japanese sports car that nosed right in between the police cruisers and, with an impatient blast of the horn, signaled two of the uniforms to make room at the curb. Ordinarily anybody who pulled a stunt like that would be snatched out of the car and laid down for a full inspection; but the officers just edged out of the sporty number's way.
Pat was squatting down beside the body, going over final details with Les Graves, a fifty-ish, heavyset, graying detective from Homicide South.
I knelt next to them and asked, "Anything?"
Graves snapped his miniature flashlight off and clipped it on his pocket. "Unless she's got something tattooed on her, she's clean. Any I.D. would've been in her purse."
Pat got back on his feet. "Well, we'll see how we make out with her prints and the laundry marks."
The door to the white car opened, but until the driver got into the glare of the headlights, I couldn't tell who the guy was.
Some "guy."
Some pussycat—a tallish, black-haired doll in a gray pants suit with black trim housing a body with curves even her sports car would find it a challenge to navigate. Self-confidence was there in her face with its hooded yet sharp dark eyes, daring anybody to doubt her—the new breed of professional woman who wasn't afraid to stay feminine while she broke your very balls.
I asked, "Who the hell's that?"
Graves thought I was kidding until Pat said, "He's been away, Les."
"Oh."
"She's an assistant D.A.," Pat told me, "and a real pisser." He turned and waved to the pair on the morgue wagon. "You can take it now."
But the lady assistant D.A. called out, "Just one moment," and clicked over on heels to step in front of them.
I could feel myself starting to grin because this little scene was about to be a real beaut. I had known Pat too many years not to realize what was about to happen, and this pretty little broad—well, not so little—was about to get her ass chewed out by an expert.
But the show she just put on spoke of political clout and I wasn't about to let Pat get hung out on a hook to dry.
So I shoved my hat back and got right in her face where she could get a good look at all my teeth. And I have a few.
"Lady," I said, "I don't know what you think you're pulling, but this is a crime scene. I'd advise you to get your attractive tail back in that un-American bucket and beat it the hell out of here."
One of the uniforms choked back a laugh so hard he farted.
Les snapped his head around and growled at his boys, "Who did that?"
This pulled all the heat out of Pat and,
despite his frown, his eyes were grinning like hell. A fart in the night had broken the ice—who'd have thunk it?
Pat pushed me out of the way nice and easy, laying all the apologetic charm he could dredge up. "I'm very sorry, Ms. Marshall, but this, uh, detective didn't recognize you. And this is a crime scene."
The cockiness she had rocketed in with had been shot down and she wasn't going to let it get worse. When she thought she had it together, she slowly turned to me to deliver that big stare that withers the weak, but my teeth were still on display and I don't remember the last time I withered.
She took a good look at me and knew not to take me on.
Smart.
Softly, yet loud enough for all to hear, she said, "Captain Chambers, I want this detective in my office at nine tomorrow morning," then hip-swayed back to her car, got in, and drove off, in full control again.
The guy with the body bag at the mouth of the morgue wagon looked at Pat. "Now?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
I had my hands on my hips and was looking in the direction where she'd disappeared. "What was she all about, Pat?"
"Ms. Marshall came in on the last election."
"Any good?"
Pat shrugged. "Started out a civil-rights attorney. They got good ones and they got bad ones, but this one's a pain in the ass."
"In what way?"
"She has a radio in her car and keeps sticking her pretty butt in where it doesn't belong."
"Well, at least she's interested."
"Interested in spotting the important cases."
"Why, is this one of 'em?"
He shrugged. "Doesn't look like it. But she's always out trolling for headlines. That was a good try you gave, cutting her down a notch."
I said, "Whoever farted wins the medal on that one."
Behind Pat they were lifting the body into the rubber bag. Rigidity had set in and an arm flopped down, something flashing near a cuffed short sleeve, the edge of which the attendant grabbed to lift the limb back in place.
I felt a frown settle across my face. Back in this concrete purgatory just a few hours, and I find death, murder, waiting for me. But this had nothing to do with me. Right? This was just another goddamn mugging gone tragically wrong.
Right?
Pat said, "Mike—did you hear me?"
I hadn't. "Oh, sorry. What'd you say?"
"Marshall—the assistant D.A.? She doesn't know you, and I don't want her knowing you. Tomorrow, when you don't show, she'll call me and I'll put Peterson on her. The inspector's no friend of hers and he won't let any of his guys get hassled, so everything stays clean."
Now I gave him the grin. "Not with that big kitten."
"Mike—"
"What's her first name?"
"Angela."
"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman, Pat ... only that's no angel."
The morgue wagon pulled away and two cruisers followed it. I walked over to where the body had been and stared down at the sand they had poured out over the spilled blood.
I don't know why these simple kills bother me. There was nothing elaborate about it. Just a lousy mugger punching a hole in a young girl's chest to grab what few bucks she had in a cheap handbag. Bing. One life down the drain. Maybe enough in that bag for a fast snort.
I bent down and picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through my fingers until only a pebble was left. Some great headstone. Fingering it, I stood up and absentmindedly stuck the little stone in my pocket. Now I had a souvenir to commemorate my homecoming.
"Let's get you to your hotel, Mike."
I got in Pat's old sedan and slammed the door shut. He put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn it. "You know, kid," he said, "I can't go anyplace with you. Man, sometimes I think a dark cloud does follow you."
"Hey, you're the one invited me back, remember?"
Chapter 3
MY EYES OPENED of their own accord to a morning that was purely New York, a shadowed city whose light strained to get in the hotel room. The digital clock read 6:15 A.M. in Frankenstein green, but twenty stories below, Forty-second Street was already snapping and growling at anybody stupid enough to be down there.
I never should have told Pat my attitude was fine. Hell, I had one great big fat attitude problem right now. Three hours from here the sun was a lively hot thing bouncing off waters so blue it took your breath away, shimmering off white sand soft as flour. From here, even the sand spurs didn't seem so bad.
If I could have woken from the nightmare that was New York into the sunshine reality of Florida, I'd have gladly done so. What was keeping me here? Why not get back on a plane today? This morning?
Doolan had been dead before I arrived, and I didn't even know the name of that dead blonde last night. An old copper with cancer ends it all; a cute dumb kid with a nice shape walks into the wrong neighborhood and becomes a mugging fatality.
What were they to me?
Something. I wasn't sure what exactly. Not yet. But something....
A year's habit was too much to break and I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, then went into the exercise routine. It wasn't a vanity kick, rather a medically ordered series that got injured muscle tissue back into working order. But I felt like I needed to be doing more, and would do something about that. When I had a good sweat going, I broke it, jumped in the shower, and when I got out, threw on a robe.
The room-service waiter brought the morning edition of the News up with my coffee, and I thumbed through it page by page, reading every damn line of every damn item like some suburbanite about to go off to work. But I couldn't fool myself too long, and finally just flipped the pages until I caught the squib almost buried among minor items about the night before.
SLAIN GIRL FOUND ON STREET
Apparent victim of mugging. Unidentified at present. Caucasian, age about 25, five feet four inches tall. Investigation continuing.
Relieved the News reporter hadn't recognized me at the scene—I was in no mood to be a sidebar—I tossed the paper and stared out the window, the old juices stirring.
This is a load of crap, I thought, and I had to cut it out. The old days had come to an end a year ago on that pier. There was no profit in getting shot up, and no glory in being made the fall guy.
But at least I got out of it alive. That young girl on the sidewalk was dead. And nobody even knew who she was.
What was it Doolan had said?
"There are some things you just can't walk away from, kid."
I climbed into sweatshirt and slacks, packed a duffel bag of fresh clothes, went down to the street, and grabbed a cab to Bing's Gym.
Nothing had changed. It was still a nondescript old building with dirty windows, and I wondered why health-conscious athletes would want to train there anyway. The interior had that sweaty jock-strap smell of all locker rooms and floating dust mites kept up a perpetual haze in the main gym.
Bing spotted me before I reached the door of his office and came out and wrapped his arms around me.
"Damn, Mike, it sure is good to see you."
He pushed back and grinned up at me, all fat and happy with his hair a monklike white semicircle. It would be hard to guess he'd been a flyweight champ in the thirties.
"Mike, where the hell you been? Look at you, like a nut, brown like a nut. You don't get that in New York."
"I'm kind of out of season for the city, kid. This is Florida gold you're looking at."
"Whatever it is, you look great, Mike."
"Quit lying."
He shrugged. "So you lost weight, so you look run-down. What's important is, how do you feel?"
"I feel lousy."
"It's a start. This stems from when you got shot?"
I nodded.
Bing looked at me carefully. "You want to work out?"
"The easy stuff," I told him.
"Like easy for who? I remember what you used to handle...."
I let out a short laugh. "Not the big boy weights, pal. Make it a ro
utine for a middle-aged beginner."
"That bad?"
"It's getting better." I glanced around the room. "You got new equipment."
"Sure. Everybody's into bodybuilding now. Don't let it bother you. Tension and weights you can adjust for a kindergartner to a Schwarzenegger. I'll check you out personally on the apparatus."
"Apparatus," I said. "Where did you hear that word?"
"It was in the manual."
"Never too old to learn."
For a full hour I went through the prescribed exercises. My body ached, the sweat poured off me, but there was the satisfying feeling of knowing that I was coming back together again. The one thing I couldn't do was overexert myself. Inside me a lot of healing still needed doing. I put in fifteen minutes of light jogging on the treadmill, then soaked in the shower room a full half hour before I got dressed.
On my way out, Bing asked, "You gonna be a regular again?"
"Long as I'm in town."
"What does that mean? A vacation's one thing, Mike, but you belong in the city."
"Not anymore."
A knowing grin creased his face. "Balls. Guy like you can't escape the city. Hell, you got a blood contract with this place. You're married to the old girl."
I grunted. "I'm about ready to kiss her goodbye."
He just shook his head. "Never happen."
"Think not?"
"Naw, Mike, never. You forgot to sign a prenup."
I laughed, let him have the exit line, went back down to the street, and started walking.
It was a different Forty-second Street at that time of morning, still dirty and noisy, but busy with a freshness that would last until after lunch. I took my time and just before nine reached the official building I wanted. The person I was after had a listing on the directory, and I caught the elevator to the fifth floor.
In an office suite paneled in what we used to call a masculine fashion, the severe young woman behind the desk regarded me with no apparent curiosity whatever. She had dark-rimmed glasses and light brown hair pinned back, but it didn't do any good—she was still attractive.
In a neutral tone that made me long for the day when the girls guarding the gates had flirted with me, she asked, "May I help you?"
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 4
