‘There’s one other thing that needs sayin’ and I’m gonna say it now.’ Boots turned to his partner. ‘Vinnie Palermo didn’t kill Chris Parker. I know that’s true because Vinnie doesn’t have the balls to stomp a cockroach. In fact, I’d be willin’ to bet my life savings that he’s never carried a gun in his life.’
‘That’s it?’
‘No. Vinnie’s a professional car thief and we both know that professional car thieves don’t carry guns because they don’t wanna do the extra time if they get caught.’
‘Done now?’ Kelly was no longer smiling.
Boots shook his head. ‘Once we have Vinnie safely detained, Inspector Corcoran’s gonna dump my ass in a hurry. I don’t mind, bein’ as I never wanted any part of him from the beginning. But then Corcoran and his task force are gonna have to deal with a big temptation.’ Boots ticked the items off on his fingers. ‘Vinnie was at the scene. He was in the process of stealin’ a car. He’s a career criminal. He’s got a long-standing cocaine habit. Stir those four ingredients into the pressure cooker and it’s fifty-fifty that Corcoran takes the easy way out. This kind of case – a cop killing – it makes careers and it breaks careers.’
‘Not my career,’ Kelly replied, ‘but I’ll keep what you said in mind. Now, we agreed that Vinnie will go out the fire escape the minute a cop knocks on his door?’
‘Without doubt. One of us will have to be waiting in back.’
‘And that has to be me, right? Being as your feet aren’t up to a chase?’
Boots nodded sadly. ‘Just do me a favor, OK? Once you put your hands on Vinnie, he’ll give up. So, let me repeat myself: Please don’t kill him.’
‘And why would I do that, Boots?’
Though Jill’s tone was so cold that Boots shivered, he made his point. ‘Because if Vinnie Booster were to die tonight, given all those factors I pointed out, the case’ll be closed by tomorrow morning.’
Kelly’s breath hissed between her teeth. For just a moment, Boots was sure she’d take a swing at him. But then she spun smartly on her right heel and headed off down the block.
EIGHT
Boots watched Jill Kelly thread her way between piles of debris as she negotiated a narrow alley that separated the tenement from a chain link fence topped with razor wire. Nothing in her body language, in the set of her shoulders, the swing of her hips or her stride, indicated the presence of fear, or even apprehension. If anything, she seemed eager. Boots smiled as a stray notion rippled through his mind. While he could easily imagine himself in bed with Jill Kelly, imagine a hard, take-no-prisoners fuck that left the bedclothes in tatters, he couldn’t imagine them exchanging a tender kiss afterward.
Boots continued to watch until Jill passed the far end of the building and disappeared into the darkness. Then he clipped his shield to the lapel of his jacket, withdrew his weapon and went to work.
The crime drop in New York over the past three decades is the stuff of legend, with homicide rates now hovering at levels associated with the golden era of the early 1960s. Even neighborhoods long associated with mindless violence – Harlem in Manhattan, Fort Greene in Brooklyn, the South Bronx – have become safe enough to attract yuppie enclaves. Nevertheless, there are still pockets in this city, sometimes only blocks long, sometimes limited to a single block, even a single building, where the bad old days are well preserved, like exhibits in a museum. That this particular tenement, the one Boots faced, had failed to get with the new program was obvious at a glance. The vinyl siding had peeled away along the seams and now projected outward like the half-erect quills of a porcupine. The window frames, crusted over by a century of intermittent repainting, appeared to be covered with bubbling mold. An elaborate cornice, heavy enough to crush a tank, had come loose at the building’s western edge and threatened to crash into the street.
Inside the narrow lobby, Boots headed for the rear of the building, then started up the stairs. The soles of his boots crunched over debris with every step. Crack vials? Broken glass? Cockroaches thick enough to form a carpet? Detective Littlewood didn’t pause to speculate – for him, this was familiar terrain. Still, he was careful not to brush against the walls or the banister as he climbed to the third floor. The pitter-pat of cockroach legs scurrying beneath his shirtsleeve was an aspect of the terrain with which he was also familiar.
Boots finally positioned himself beside the door of an apartment running along the eastern side of the building. Curling his hand into a fist, he hammered on the door three times, putting some effort into it.
‘Vinnie,’ he shouted, ‘it’s Boots Littlewood. Get your ass out here and do it now. Don’t make me say it again, Vinnie. Get your ass out in this hall.’
Boots pounded on the door three more times, repeated the verbal message, then retraced his steps. Given the near-darkness and his fragile feet, he took the stairs as quickly as possible, hustling down the alley only to discover that his partner had the situation well in hand. Jill was sitting astride Vinnie Booster, whacking away at his shoulders with a spring-steel sap.
At that point, as he holstered his weapon, Boots had a vision of himself undercutting Kelly’s authority, say by yanking her off the unresisting Palermo. But she stood as he approached.
‘How’s the feet?’ she asked.
‘So far so good.’ Boots grabbed Vinnie by the shoulder, pulled him up, then slammed his fist into the man’s abdomen. Palermo stumbled backwards before crashing to the ground.
‘What was that about?’ Jill asked.
‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’
‘You wanna know why I smacked Vinnie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t run from cops, Boots, especially this one. It shows contempt and we can’t have that. Plus, I fell in the slime and tore my pants. I’m gonna have to toss the whole outfit.’ Kelly folded her arms across her chest, the sap still dangling from her fingers. ‘Your turn,’ she said. ‘Why’d you hit him?’
‘Simple, Jill. Vinnie’s my snitch and he held out on me. We can’t have that, either.’
‘I didn’t do it,’ Vinnie said for the fourth time. ‘I swear I didn’t do it. I never shot nobody in my life.’
Jill Kelly raised a hand to slow him down. ‘All right, Vinnie, we get the message. You didn’t shoot anybody. Now, can we please move on?’
They were sitting in the Crown Vic, Boots behind the wheel, his partner alongside, Palermo in the back. Palermo’s hands weren’t cuffed because he was a witness and not a suspect, at least officially. Nevertheless, Boots spelled out the man’s constitutional rights.
‘Listen to me close, Vinnie,’ he announced. ‘You don’t have to talk to us if you don’t want to, and you can have a lawyer. But if you do talk to us, whatever you say is strictly on the record. You’re not gonna be able to change your story later on.’
Boots expected Kelly’s quick glance to be malice-filled. Instead, he found her merely curious.
‘No,’ Vinnie said, ‘I trust you, Boots. You always played it straight with me in the past. If I gotta talk to someone, I figure it should be you.’ He paused long enough to fill his lungs. ‘I mean, you don’t have to tell me that I fucked up. I know I shoulda come to you right away. And I swear that was exactly what I was gonna do. But when I found out the hit was on a cop, I got scared.’
‘Scared that you’d be blamed?’
‘Yeah, and I was scared of the shooter, too. That was some cold shit, man. One in the back, one in the head.’
Vinnie’s eyes drifted up and to the left as he searched his memory banks. Then he was off and running. The story he told confirmed Frankie Drago’s, but there were a number of additional details: Vinnie had entered the Nissan shortly before one o’clock; the Nissan’s alarm had briefly sounded when Vinnie unlatched the door with a slim jim; Chris Parker had driven to the meeting in a Grand Cherokee; the shooter’s back was to Vinnie at all times.
The only description he could offer was of an average-sized man wearing a navy pea
coat and a watch cap that covered most of his head, face and neck.
As Boots drove to the Six-Four, he used the rear-view mirror to keep an eye on Vinnie Booster. Palermo seemed almost cheerful now that he’d come clean, as if he no longer had a care in the world. Unfortunately, in terms of his penal interests, his story could only have been more disastrous if he’d confessed to the murder. Vinnie knew the make and model of Chris Parker’s car, a detail that had never been released to the press – beyond any doubt, he’d been there. The car alarm also hurt him. Wasn’t it possible that the alarm had attracted Parker (who was, after all, a cop) and that a deadly confrontation had followed? And wasn’t it convenient that Palermo hadn’t seen the shooter’s face? That the only alternative to himself was a silhouette?
It was ten o’clock when the trio walked into the Six-Four. The first order of business was to place Vinnie Palermo in an interview room and instruct him not to leave. Then Kelly used her cellphone to report the successful completion of her mission.
‘Inspector, we’ve got him in custody.’ She listened closely for a moment, then said, ‘Got it,’ before hanging up. Finally, she turned to Boots and offered her hand. ‘Boots, it’s been great working with you.’
‘Are you telling me that my expertise is no longer required?’
‘Afraid so.’
A few minutes later, Lieutenant Carl Levine summoned Boots to his office. ‘You did good work, Boots. Not that Corcoran will ever give you credit.’ He waved Boots to a seat, took a pint of Wild Turkey bourbon and a pair of plastic cups from the drawer of his desk, poured each of them a short jolt.
‘To the bosses,’ he said, forgetting, for the moment, that he himself was a boss.
‘May they live long and prosper.’ Boots downed his shot. ‘So, that’s it? I’m done?’
‘Corcoran will be here in an hour. You’ll want to have your fives ready. That way, the task force won’t have an excuse to revisit the Six-Four.’
Levine was right and Boots knew it. The task force would be certain to reserve all credit to itself, so the smart move was to feed the beast, then move on.
Boots went to his desk and started writing. He included every detail of his confrontations with Frankie Drago, Pete Karakovich and Vinnie Palermo in a series of DD-5s. Ordinarily, this was a task he enjoyed, this imaginary war of wits he played with defense lawyers as he tried to give them as little help as possible. Not this time. Each sentence, as far as he could tell, was another handful of dirt bouncing off the lid of Palermo’s coffin. To anybody who didn’t know him, the man looked guilty as hell. He had motive, opportunity and almost three weeks to dispose of the means.
Just as Boots finished up, Corcoran entered the squad room, shortly followed by his running dogs from Homicide, Artie Farrahan and Thelonius Tolliver. Corcoran wore a black overcoat, probably cashmere, which he’d thrown over his broad shoulders in a manner usually associated with dead Italian gangsters. When Boots approached, he turned away, leaving Boots to hand his paperwork to Detective Farrahan.
‘You gonna try to put this on Palermo?’ Boots asked.
In his mid-forties, Artie Farrahan had a full head of jet-black hair that he combed across his forehead, leaving only a couple of inches of skin showing above his eyebrows. ‘Why? Did Palermo do it?’
‘No, he didn’t, Artie, but in this particular case, I don’t think his innocence will protect him.’
From inside Levine’s office, Corcoran’s voice rang out. ‘Detective Farrahan, we’re waiting.’
Farrahan smiled before turning away with a shrug. Homicide or not, he was a bit player.
Still, Boots was unsatisfied. Instead of leaving, he waited for Jill Kelly to emerge from the bathroom. ‘I have a couple of questions before you join the party,’ he announced, blocking her path.
‘Shoot.’
‘First thing, if there was a confrontation before Vinnie shot Chris Parker, how did Parker get shot in the back?’
Kelly’s full mouth expanded slightly. ‘Maybe Palermo got the drop on Parker, but didn’t have the balls to look into his eyes when he pulled the trigger. So he made Parker turn around.’
Undeterred, Boots responded with a second question, and a third, and a fourth. He wasn’t going to get another chance at this. ‘Think about it, Jill. If Parker suspected that Vinnie was stealing a car, why was his weapon still in his holster, his badge in his pocket and his overcoat buttoned? And if Parker wasn’t displaying a weapon, why didn’t Vinnie just run away? What was his motive for murdering a cop?’
‘Boots, you should’ve been a defense lawyer. You’ve got the knack.’
The remark was obviously designed to end the conversation, only Boots didn’t take the hint, not even when Kelly walked away.
‘You’ve seen the case file,’ he called to her retreating back, ‘which makes you one up on me. So, what’s the official reason why Parker, who lives thirty miles away on Long Island, was in Williamsburg at one o’clock in the morning on his day off?’
As Boots watched his ex-partner retreat, an anomaly he hadn’t considered popped into his mind. The Altima that Vinnie stole on the night Parker died was registered to a man named Rajiv Visnawana, who resided in Jackson Heights, a Queens neighborhood ten miles away. So, what was Rajiv doing in Williamsburg at one in the morning? Especially as there were no immigrants from the Indian subcontinent living in the area.
NINE
Boots entered the Sixty-Fourth Precinct at two o’clock on the following afternoon, two hours before the start of his tour. He greeted the desk officer, then headed for the weight room to complete the workout he’d begun on the prior morning. There he found Sergeant Craig O’Malley and his long-time driver, Boris Velikov, known to one and all as the Bulgarian. Both these men augmented their weightlifting with injected steroids. Boots knew this because they’d offered to juice him up. Perhaps, if he was fifteen years younger, he would have been tempted. But these days the weight room was more about slowing the rate of attrition.
‘Yo, Boots, you’re the best, man,’ O’Malley cried out when Boots made his appearance. Craig was seated on a workout bench, his right elbow on his thigh, doing curls with a forty-pound dumbbell. ‘Come down to Sally’s tonight. The drinks are on me.’
‘Ya got the mother-fucker,’ Velikov added with a grin that would have made Dracula tremble. After years of juicing, Boris tended to speak in threat-like grunts.
‘Could you repeat that?’
‘Godda mother-fucker,’ the Bulgarian repeated.
‘I guess you didn’t see the press conference,’ O’Malley added.
‘What press conference?’
O’Malley’s right arm pivoted at the elbow, from full contraction, to full extension, to full contraction. ‘The one the bosses threw at noon. Where they announced the arrest of a cop killer named Vinnie Palermo.’
Boots reached into the pocket of his trousers for his Tic Tacs. He filled his mouth, then lay down on the mat and hooked his legs beneath a bench. Boots hated doing sit-ups. Not only did they leave him panting, but his waist never seemed to get any smaller.
‘Everybody knows it was you,’ O’Malley added. ‘You’re the one who found Palermo.’
All three worked out for the next half-hour, exchanging little more than grunts, until O’Malley and Velikov decided to call it an afternoon. Boots stopped them as they headed for the showers.
‘You ever hear of a mutt named Mark Dupont?’ he asked. When both men shook their heads, he continued. ‘Dupont’s been upstate for six years on a rape charge, but he’s back now. I saw him last night. Guys, Dupont’s the real deal, a genuine bad boy, and I’m lookin’ for an excuse to violate his parole.’
‘You got a mug shot?’ O’Malley asked.
‘I’m gonna print some up after I finish my workout. But I gotta warn ya, just in case you should run into him, Dupont’s a born cop fighter. He won’t go down easy.’
Boots watched Velikov and O’Malley exchange a look of keen anticipation, thinking t
hat not only did their shoulders begin at the tops of their ears, but the veins in their necks were as thick and juicy as night crawlers.
After a shower, Boots went directly to the squad room where he endured the congratulations of his fellow detectives while he pulled up Dupont’s mug shot and printed two dozen copies. Although more than a hundred uniformed officers were assigned to the Six-Four, in Littlewood’s experience only a select few had more than a passing attachment to the craft of policing. The rest confined their ambitions to the magic pension and the lifetime medical benefits that came with it.
His task completed, Boots carried the photos to the first floor and distributed twenty copies to various cops as they emerged from the muster room, including O’Malley and Velikov. He made the same pitch to each. Dupont was a violent criminal; his entire life was about mayhem of one kind or another. If they could please mention him to their snitches, maybe get a line on his current activities, Boots would be ever so grateful.
Boots followed the last of the cops he briefed out to the sidewalk in front of the precinct. It was just after four o’clock and the sun was headed for the horizon. Still, the day was warm enough for Boots to shrug out of his coat and store it in the trunk of an unmarked car before heading off.
From the Six-Four, Boots drove to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a Roman Catholic church on Havemeyer Street in a mostly Italian section of Williamsburg called the Northside. Mount Carmel was familiar ground. Boots had attended the primary school, served as an altar boy, been baptized and confirmed at Mount Carmel. He knew most of the priests by their first names and only confessed to a Franciscan monk named Leonzo Gubetti. It was Father Gubetti he went in search of, trying him first in the rectory before tracking him down in the church’s vestry. Boots was hoping to get in and out in a hurry, but when he finally came face to face with the priest, he found the monk’s gaze sharp and accusing.
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