As he walked back to his car, Boots experienced a single moment of buyer’s remorse. If he was wrong, wrong about everything, he’d be in jail by morning. On the other hand, if he was right, Jill Kelly would come knocking on his door, cigarette in hand. Not a bad gamble when he thought it out. Not bad at all.
TWENTY-TWO
Boots was in his kitchen at ten o’clock on the following morning, cleaning the trap beneath the sink, when his father came into the room. By then, Boots had read all three New York newspapers and watched the news on every channel, broadcast and cable. No mention had been made of Artie Farrahan.
‘You were right,’ Andy Littlewood said. ‘She’s here.’
‘Jill Kelly?’
‘Cobalt eyes. Carries the map of Ireland on her face?’
‘That’s her.’ Boots looked down at his greasy hands. ‘Why don’t you park her in the living room, tell her I’ll be out in a minute?’
Boots soaped his hands before turning on the water in the sink. For several seconds, the drain ran freely, but then little jets of muddy water began to fill the basin. Boots cursed silently. It would take him the better part of the afternoon to pull the trap and clean it out.
Boots dried his hands, then went to meet his guest. He had a greeting all prepared, something light: ‘Hey, what’s a nice girl like you doing in Greenpoint?’ But the words stuck in his throat when Jill Kelly’s eyes dug into his. Boots held her gaze long enough to assure himself that he wasn’t intimidated, then laid a small ashtray on the end table to her left.
‘You wanna smoke, feel free.’
Boots Littlewood’s living room might have been designed by a decorator from the Salvation Army. Though he had the money to refurnish (and Libby Greenspan was eager to assist), Boots liked his home the way it was. The mismatched end tables, the glass coffee table with the chip in the corner, a worn sofa, a Queen Anne chair, a pair of recliners, one blue, one black – all arranged to face a fifty-inch, flat-screen television.
Boots took a seat on the couch, stationing himself as close to the ashtray as possible.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said. The statement was meant to challenge, but Jill’s gaze didn’t waver. Boots smiled. ‘So, how’s Artie?’
‘Farrahan claims that he doesn’t remember a thing.’ Kelly wore an off-white linen jacket over white slacks and a navy blouse just a shade darker than her eyes. She tugged on the jacket’s lapel. ‘I made a bet with Uncle Mike when you originally got jumped. I bet you wouldn’t take it lyin’ down.’
Boots assumed that Uncle Mike was Michael Shaw, Chief of Detectives. ‘I might’ve let it go, if they hadn’t marked me. But I’ll still take that as a compliment.’
‘Which is how it was meant.’ Jill fished in her pocket, finally pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. Taking her time, she lit up and drew the smoke into her lungs. ‘So, tell me, Boots, how did you know?’
Boots took a deep breath when Jill Kelly exhaled, even though she blew the smoke away from him. ‘You wouldn’t be wearing a wire, would you?’ he asked.
Kelly opened her jacket to reveal a Browning nine-millimeter tucked into a polymer holster on the left side of her belt. Designed to facilitate a quick draw, the holster had a backward rake that tilted the weapon toward her right hand.
‘You wanna search me?’
‘Desperately,’ Boots cheerfully admitted. When Jill laughed, he continued. ‘Now, the question you’re askin’, if I read you right, is how I knew I could get away with assaulting Artie Farrahan.’
‘And how you knew I’d show up.’
Boots leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees. ‘I expected Corcoran to come after me when I turned up Rajiv Visnawana. You know about Rajiv?’ He waited for Kelly to nod, then continued. ‘I was afraid Corcoran would have me transferred to eastern Queens or the northern Bronx, or convince IAB to open a file, or maybe even bring me up on charges, try to bust me back to patrol. But a physical attack? It never crossed my mind. I walked into that apartment as innocent as a baby.’
‘I’ll bet you grew up pretty quick.’
‘Not really. In fact, my first thought – when I could think again – was kind of admiring. I never figured Corcoran to have the balls. It took a while before I realized that attacking me was an act of desperation.’
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘The risks, Jill. I kept askin’ myself why Corcoran took all those risks when he could have operated behind the scenes. Keep in mind, anything might have gone wrong. They might’ve been seen, coming in or going out. Or I might’ve sensed the trap, or gotten to my gun and shot one of them. As it was, I managed to hurt Farrahan enough for the injury to show up later on.’
‘The limp? That was you?’
‘Yeah.’ Boots turned his head into the smoke when Jill ground her cigarette into the ashtray. The scent hit his brain like a pheromone. ‘What I finally decided was this. First, Corcoran didn’t use the job to teach me a lesson because he couldn’t. Second, he couldn’t because somebody was protecting me. Third, that somebody was Michael Shaw, Chief of Detectives, brother-in-law of Patrick Kelly. See, I already knew that Olmeda, Corcoran, Parker, Farrahan and your father served on a task force set up to investigate a serial killer. And I also knew that your father was shot to death a year later.’
Boots paused, waiting for Jill Kelly to flinch. She didn’t. ‘Corcoran might not have been swift enough to figure this out beforehand. Myself, I think he was a victim of his own ego. But I’m sure he understands by now. We’re locked out of the criminal justice system and neither of us can call the cops. The explanations would be too damning. That’s why Artie clammed up.’
Jill considered this for a moment, then said, ‘So, what do you want from me?’
‘What I want is Vinnie Palermo out of jail.’
‘In that case, you and Uncle Mike are in sync.’ Jill brushed her hair away from the side of her head. ‘I know it’s impolite to ask, but you wouldn’t happen to have a cup of coffee to spare? I’ve been up all night.’
This was exactly what Boots had been hoping for. He led Jill Kelly through the kitchen to a sink half-filled with greasy water. ‘Looks like we’ll have to go out. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry anyhow.’
The plan was to drive to a restaurant thirty minutes away in Park Slope, with the windows up and locked. But Jill Kelly disappointed him.
‘Forget the coffee; I have to get some sleep,’ she said as she returned to her chair. ‘I had a long talk with Uncle Mike before I came by. He gave me a list of items that I’m supposed to keep to myself, including his part in the play. But me, I like to lay things out. That’s why I’m a crappy detective.’ She paused long enough to light another cigarette. ‘So let me say this. I’m not Uncle Mike’s dog, though he does his best to keep me on a short leash.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the Kellys have been players in the NYPD for generations. Because Michael Shaw hitched a ride on the Kelly reputation when he married into the family. Because he now claims to be the family patriarch, and family patriarchs consider independence, especially on the part of females, an abomination unto God.’
Boots took a deep breath. The windows were shut and the room was filling with smoke. Maybe he could stretch the conversation out all afternoon. ‘Were you at home,’ he asked, ‘when your father was shot?’
Jill blinked, then grinned. ‘See, right there. You waited until I was distracted, then pushed one of my buttons. I’m not subtle enough for that. And the answer to your question is yes, I was there, in the house.’
‘And that’s why you came to my house? Your father?’ Boots crossed his legs. He was wearing a pair of ratty jeans and a white t-shirt washed so many times it was nearly transparent. His drain-clearing outfit. ‘I’m not tryin’ to confront you, Jill, but if you’re not workin’ for your uncle, you have to have another reason for knockin’ on my door. I want to know that reason.’ He smiled. ‘For obvious reasons.’
>
Jill Kelly folded her arms beneath her breasts. Boots had flipped the conversation on its head. She’d come expecting to put him through his paces and he was the one holding up the hoops. Watch him, she told herself, and don’t underestimate him. Never assume that you know what he’s thinking.
‘The investigation went on for eighteen months,’ she finally said. ‘Detectives grilled every felon my father arrested, going back two years. Every family member and every friend of the family was interviewed.’
‘I take it nothing turned up?’
‘Not a single viable suspect.’
‘But you’re somehow connecting his death to his work on the Lipstick Killer task force.’
Kelly remained quiet for a moment. Then she changed the subject. ‘We’ll have a new Mayor next year,’ she said, ‘because our current Mayor is term-limited. A new Mayor means a new Commissioner. Down at the Puzzle Palace, the Chiefs are drooling over the prospect. Think about it. These men have spent their entire working lives moving up the ladder. They passed the sergeants’, lieutenants’ and captains’ exams. They received advanced degrees from prominent universities. They were promoted from Captain, to Deputy Inspector, to Inspector, to Deputy Chief, to Chief. Boots, the only up from Chief is Commissioner.’
Andy Littlewood took that moment to enter the apartment. He slowed momentarily when he caught sight of Jill Kelly holding a cigarette. Andy hadn’t allowed a cigarette to be smoked in his own apartment since the day he quit fifteen years before. Finally, he came forward and laid a tray on the glass table in front of the couch. The tray bore a carafe of coffee, two mugs and several slices of carrot cake.
‘My son warned me,’ he said, his brogue thick enough to be peat, ‘not to call you a lass. But by all that’s holy, when I look into your eyes, I can find no other words.’
‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Andy Littlewood’s smile wavered for a moment, then vanished. ‘Well, then, I can see you’re busy.’
Jill continued on as though they’d never been interrupted. ‘Now, here’s the thing. Uncle Mike would sell his soul to be named Commissioner, but he’s not an idiot – no Chief of D has ever made it to the top. But Uncle Mike’s willing to settle for second best, which is his job. He wants to remain Chief of Detectives after the changeover.’
‘And Mario Polanco is how he plans to do it?’ Boots asked. Mario Polanco was Chief of Internal Affairs.
‘Exactly. Polanco is one of the hopefuls and Uncle Mike’s been his running dog for years. If Polanco’s named Commissioner, Michael Shaw remains Chief of D. It’s that simple.’
‘What’s Corcoran’s connection?’
‘Corcoran’s rabbi is the Chief of Department, Eamon Gogarty, who has more political connections in New York than the Mayor. He’s everybody’s favorite. Polanco’s hoping to bring Gogarty down a peg.’
‘And how do I fit in?’
‘When Vinnie Palermo’s arrest was announced, Eamon Gogarty and Mack Corcoran were both standing on the platform, along with the Mayor and the Commissioner.’
‘So, if Vinnie’s cleared, the blame will fall on Polanco’s rivals.’ Boots took a second to add up the columns. ‘Are you telling me that Michael Shaw doesn’t want me to look at his brother-in-law’s murder? He’s willing to let that go?’
‘Listen and learn, Boots. If Michael Shaw had to choose between his own interests and the interests of God Almighty, he wouldn’t hesitate for a minute. And he won’t hesitate to feed you all the rope you want, then hang you with it if you fail to advance those interests.’
‘In that case, you better hope I know what I’m doin’, because the way I’m gonna set things up, Mike Shaw won’t be able to hang Boots Littlewood without also hanging Jill Kelly.’
Jill crossed her legs, noting Boots Littlewood’s gaze flick to her thighs. ‘Why don’t we get down to business,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you want.’
TWENTY-THREE
Boots had a list of demands all ready to go, a list he’d been preparing for weeks. He was about to begin with the items at the top of the list when his house phone rang.
‘Boots, it’s Fianna Walsh speakin’. You remember when you asked us to watch for the cops? Well, there’s one sittin’ right down the block.’
‘In uniform?’
‘No, but we talked it over and Jenicka’s sure. The guy’s definitely watchin’ your house.’
‘When did he show up?’
‘Right after your … your little visitor.’
Boots was still smiling when he re-entered the living room. Boots beaten up? Cops on the block? Little visitors? Even the heaven to which Fianna and the ladies fully expected to ascend couldn’t be more joyful than this.
‘Problem?’ Jill asked.
‘Yeah, we’ve got an uninvited guest sittin’ in a car up the block. Time for a little walk.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘Show you off.’
‘Is that the price? Jill Kelly as your protector?’
Boots ignored the jibe. ‘Actually, the price is a lot higher. First thing, I want to be returned to active duty, but I don’t want to report to anyone but you. And no paper trail, either. I keep my notes to myself until such time as I decide to release them. Otherwise, I’ll work things out on my own.’
A pair of roses blossomed in Jill Kelly’s cheeks. Irish roses, no doubt, roses of Killarney. ‘What else?’
‘The case files on the Lipstick Killer, Patrick Kelly and Chris Parker, along with any relevant IAB files, and time enough to study them. After that, you get to watch my back on the street. The way I understand it, you’ve got the eyes of an eagle and the balls of a wolverine.’
This time Jill got the message. A spank on the ass, a pat on the head. ‘If your only goal is to liberate Vinnie Palermo, what do you want with the other files?’
Boots shook his head. His demands were non-negotiable. ‘You don’t mind, I’m gonna head for the bedroom and change my clothes. I was raised in Greenpoint and I have to meet neighborhood standards.’
Now Kelly was laughing. ‘Neighborhood standards? Boots, you better look in the mirror. Because if your face is the neighborhood standard, it’s time to emigrate.’
Lenny Olmeda’s eyes jumped back and forth, from Boots to Jill, as he watched them approach. He was wondering which of the two was actually in charge. The question was answered when Boots leaned into the window, his face close enough to count the fading stitch-marks on his forehead. Olmeda braced himself. Corcoran’s instructions were succinct: Find out what he wants. Lenny Olmeda could only hope it wasn’t a pound of his flesh.
‘I was just coming to see you, Boots.’
‘What about?’
‘The case, man. I came about the case. It looks like you were right. The rumor on the street is that Mark Dupont—’
‘Forget it, Lenny. Mark Dupont had nothing to do with what happened to me. I only said that to buy a little time. Now, listen close to what I’m tellin’ you. Me and Jill are gonna walk around the block. If you’re still parked here when we get back, I’ll do to you what I did to Artie Farrahan. Plus, you should tell your boss that if he sends somebody else, I’m going to assume that individual means to do me harm and act appropriately.’
Boots straightened up and turned to face his partner. Jill Kelly was standing a few feet to the left, seeming entirely at ease except for a single detail, a detail only a cop would notice. Though her shoulders were relaxed and her arms hung at her sides, she was grasping the hem of her linen jacket with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. If she needed to reach her weapon, of course, she’d have to get her jacket out of the way.
‘So,’ he said as he led her up the block, ‘I heard you’re a great shot. Where’d you learn?’
‘My father was big on self-protection. I was ten when he enrolled me in a class at the range in Sunnyside. I took to it right away.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
Jill glanced over her shoulder as Olmeda
pulled away from the curb and headed down the block. ‘I’m not a big fan of psychiatry,’ she told Boots. ‘To my mind, the examined life’s not worth living. But I’ll tell you this, there’s a lot to be said for being really good at something. After I came within ten points of making the Olympic team last year, my self-esteem went through the roof.’
Boots watched Jill light a cigarette, carefully gauged the direction of an intermittent breeze, finally dropped a step behind her. From this position, he could observe the rise and fall of her buttocks without her catching him at it. To his experienced eye, they appeared as confident as the rest of her.
‘I was never that good at anything,’ he said, ‘but I once hit a baseball four hundred feet. That was in a PAL championship game. Talk about a sweet spot. It felt like I hit a golf ball.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Win what?’
‘The game.’
‘No, we lost.’
Jill wiped the sweat off her forehead. ‘Sorry to hear that.’
Forty-eight hours later, Boots got what he wanted: a mountain of paper that he and Jill carried to an unused bedroom in his apartment. The Lipstick Killer task force had included nearly a hundred cops investigating four homicides. Apparently, they’d toiled night and day, conducting thousands of interviews which now filled several dozen boxes. The paper generated by the year-long Pat Kelly investigation filled a dozen more. Chris Parker, by comparison, was the neglected orphan, two boxes sufficient to contain the entirety of the investigation into his death.
‘Hope you brought your reading glasses.’
‘Gimme a break. I just turned forty. I can read without glasses.’
‘Sorry. The scar – it makes you look older.’
‘Now who’s pressing buttons?’
They were standing on opposite sides of a wooden desk, both grinning, both sweating. ‘I realize it’s not my place to ask,’ Jill said, ‘but what do you plan to do with all this?’
Dancer in the Flames Page 14
