Anita glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I need to get busy. Movers or not, I have a lot of work to do. But thanks for stopping by.’
Boots raised a finger. ‘I had another reason for coming over this morning,’ he admitted.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Well, my father and I have a house in Greenpoint. We’ve been living there for a long time, but the neighborhood’s changing. Not only are the yuppies movin’ in, the Mayor wants to line the East River with high-rise condominiums. It’s gonna be like starin’ out through a row of teeth. Me and my dad, we think it’s time to make a change.’
Anita Parker smiled. ‘You want to buy the house? It’s a fine house.’
‘I don’t deny that for a minute, but I still have to check it out, maybe come back with my father. I already copied down your broker’s phone number.’
‘Sounds great.’ Anita rose. ‘Feel free to look wherever you want. I’ll be upstairs, packing the kids’ clothes. We’re driving.’
A few minutes later, Boots counted his blessings for the second time that morning when he discovered a double-hung window in a first-floor guest room. Concealed from outside observers by an overgrown lilac bush, the window was a burglar’s delight. Boots took a handkerchief from an inner pocket and covered his fingertips before parting the curtains to flip the window’s lock. He stood there for just a moment afterward, until he’d fashioned an internal map that led out to the street. Then he quickly retraced his steps, entering the front room to discover the unmistakable fragrance of a burning cigarette wafting down from the second floor. If this keeps up, he told himself as he climbed the stairs, I’m gonna have to stop on the way home, buy a lottery ticket. Because luck doesn’t get any better than this.
Two hours later, after a careful inspection of the Parker house that carried him from the attic to the basement, Boots finally drove away. He had a long trip ahead of him, out to the 111th Precinct in Bayside, an upscale neighborhood in eastern Queens. As expected, the ride was all metal, asphalt and soot, from the Verranzano Bridge to the Gowanus Expressway, to the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway, to the Long Island Expressway, to the Clearview Expressway. Although traffic was heavy from beginning to end, Boots remained patient, guiding his Chevy into the left lane, moving right only at the interchanges. He kept an eye on the rear-view mirror as he went, and made a series of maneuvers when he got off at Northern Boulevard, speeding up, slowing down, turning corners without signaling. When he was absolutely certain that he wasn’t being tailed, he double-parked in front of the One-Eleven.
Twenty minutes later, Detective Thelonius Tolliver, formerly of the Chris Parker task force, emerged to find Boots Littlewood standing at the curb. Tolliver nodded to himself, then hunched a pair of heavily muscled shoulders as he walked straight up to Boots.
‘I like the look,’ he said, jerking his chin toward Boots’s injuries. ‘Gives your face character.’
Boots smiled. ‘Thanks for caring.’
‘So, what’d you come here for?’
‘Guidance.’
Tolliver laughed. ‘You want a guide, ask an Indian. Me, I’m not Sacajawea.’
‘I was hopin’ you’d be pissed off.’ Boots returned Tolliver’s smile.
‘At what?’
‘At bein’ transferred from Homicide out to the sticks.’
‘Ah, I get it. But you made a little mistake. I wasn’t demoted. I asked for the transfer.’
Boots nodded thoughtfully. ‘In that case, let me buy you a drink. To celebrate.’
‘Here’s to you, Thelonius.’ Boots raised his glass. ‘The first man in the entire history of the NYPD to voluntarily quit the ultra-prestigious Homicide Division.’
They were sitting in El Matador, a Mexican restaurant on Thirty-Ninth Avenue. Boots found the decor overdone, too many sombreros and blankets, too many saddles embossed with silver buckles, too many capes and swords. Still, El Matador had one shining virtue. It wasn’t a cop bar.
Boots watched Tolliver sip at his scotch and milk. The man’s face was composed, as always, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. ‘Can I make an educated guess?’ Boots finally asked.
‘About what?’
‘About why you’re in Bayside.’
Tolliver shook his head, the gesture slow and deliberate. ‘You got a family, Boots?’
‘Yeah, a son. He’s pretty much grown-up now.’
‘I wish I could say the same. Me, I got five dependent kids and an old lady with rheumatoid arthritis. You hear me, Boots? I got a sick wife and five children and no dog in this fight.’
‘Is that why you came to Queens? Because it’s quiet?’
‘Give this man a cigar. Burglaries. Auto theft. No overtime. I put in my hours and go home to what really matters.’
‘Then let me appeal to your detective’s curiosity. Listen to my educated guess. Tell me if I’m bein’ an asshole.’
Tolliver raised his glass. ‘It’s your dime, Boots. Guess away.’
‘OK, my gut tells me that in the course of your investigation you discovered that Chris Parker was dirty and that you decided to remove yourself from the scene because you didn’t know who else might be dirty. Corcoran? Farrahan? Olmeda? They were Chris Parker’s old buddies.’
‘That’s good. You must’ve gotten your hands on Parker’s file.’ Tolliver saluted with a meaty hand, then leaned across the table. ‘What do you want from me, Boots?’
‘Guidance, like I already said. I can put Corcoran, Parker, Olmeda and Farrahan together, but I don’t know who else is out there. Or if there’s anybody I can trust.’
Though Tolliver’s nose was broad and his mouth large, his face was dominated by a pair of round cheeks that bulged from either side of his face. He scratched at those cheeks as he pondered his options. ‘I’m a good cop,’ he said. ‘I never took a penny in my life.’
‘That’s why it gets to you when you see another cop with his hand out.’ Boots drained his Corona. He’d already decided not to stop talking unless Tolliver got up and walked out. In his experience, a man with a conscience could always be worn down.
‘You’ve had a look at the Parker file – that right?’ Tolliver asked.
‘Read it from cover to cover.’
‘So you know that Maurice Selman accused Parker of extortion.’
‘Yeah, but Selman’s dead.’
Suddenly Tolliver leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ‘What about a dealer named Elijah LeGuin? Was his name mentioned?’
‘Maytag LeGuin? I didn’t see a word.’
‘Well, three different informants connected Parker to LeGuin, so the fact that LeGuin’s name doesn’t appear in the case file oughta tell you something.’
‘It tells me why you left Homicide,’ Boots replied. ‘And I don’t blame you.’
Tolliver finished his beer and stood. ‘It’s been swell, Boots.’ He stretched out his hand, gesturing with his chin at Boots’s forehead. ‘And for what it’s worth, I’m wishin’ you luck. After what happened, I know you won’t back off. But me, I have other priorities, so what I’m suggestin’ is this. You want a guide, go speak to LeGuin, who knows where the bodies are buried. Maybe, if you ask him real nice, he’ll draw you a map.’
TWENTY-SIX
Boots shoveled the last of the pancakes on to a plate, handed the plate to Joaquin, then turned back to the stove. He dropped a chunk of butter into the pan and waited for it to melt before adding ladles of pancake batter. ‘Go easy on the syrup,’ he said without turning around.
‘Please, Boots, tell me we’re not gonna do the weight thing at nine thirty in the morning.’
‘You’re sayin’ that your weight’s not on the rise?’ Boots turned down the burner, then slid a spatula under one of the pancakes. Not quite.
‘Actually, I don’t recall bringing the subject up.’
Joaquin cut through his stack with the edge of a fork. Boots was right – he’d gained ten pounds over the past couple of months. And,
yes, just like Boots told him when he was fifteen, he’d be struggling with his weight for the rest of his life. Thanks for reminding me, prick.
‘I’ve been thinking over what you said the other day, about taking Galligan’s offer. He wants seventy thousand for half the stock, ten up front.’
Boots stifled a groan. There was no way he could raise ten grand without taking a loan from the credit union, or, even worse, approaching his father.
‘Nothing to say?’ Joaquin asked.
‘Are you sure you can make a living?’
‘Going in, I’ll draw a grand a week, plus half of the profits at the end of the year. Assuming we make a profit after we finish with the banks.’
‘The banks?’
‘The business needs to expand and remodel. It’ll take cash.’
‘What about school?’
‘I’ve already spoken to the administration. They’ll let me take a leave of absence for the fall semester.’ Caught up in his own thoughts, Joaquin leaned forward. ‘I’m enrolled in two courses over the summer and I’m committed to working thirty hours a week for Tommy Galligan. By the time September rolls around, I should have a pretty good idea of where the business is going. If I’m not satisfied, I can always re-enroll at NYU.’
Boots added syrup to his pancakes and began to eat. ‘There’s somebody I want you to check out,’ he said. ‘Elijah “Maytag” LeGuin, a drug dealer. I might have to take him off the street, but I don’t want it to happen at one of his spots. I want it to go down somewhere quiet.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because he’ll most likely feel obliged to display his contempt for authority if his pals are watching. Besides, LeGuin is at least two steps removed from day-to-day operations and I could be lookin’ for months. What I think, he’s got a hidey-hole, a house or an apartment, somewhere he goes to get away from the pressure. The property might be in his name, in the name of his sisters or brothers if he has any, or his mother or father, or even a girlfriend. How much would it cost me to find out?’
Joaquin’s grin spread from ear to ear. Boots would come up with the ten grand. Of course he would. But he’d expect a lifetime of freebies in return.
‘How fast do you need this, Boots?’
‘Like yesterday.’
Boots finished his breakfast, then headed off to the bathroom to shave. When he returned, he found Jill Kelly huddled over a mug of black coffee. Joaquin was seated across from her, grinning like a smitten twelve-year-old.
‘Are you a cop?’ Jill asked.
‘No, I’m a student. Which reminds me. If I don’t get myself in gear, I’ll miss my first class.’
‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Jill turned to Boots, a quizzical smile playing at the corners of her lips. Breakfast dishes? Latino and gringo? The age difference?
‘It’s a good thing you came by, Jill,’ Boots said. ‘I’ve been going crazy with those files.’
Joaquin poked his head into the kitchen. ‘Nice meeting you,’ he said to Jill Kelly. ‘Boots, I’ll get back to you in the next couple of days.’
Boots shot Joaquin a hard look. He and his son had a deal. One cooked and the other cleaned up. While Boots didn’t mind Jill thinking he might be gay, housewife was another story.
‘You gonna tell me?’ Jill asked.
‘About what?’
Jill watched Boots run a line of detergent over the dishes in the sink, then turn on the water. Of his sexual orientation, she had no doubt. Gay men don’t strip you naked with their eyes.
‘About your friend.’
‘Jackie’s my son.’
‘I was just gonna say that. The resemblance is unmistakable.’
Boots refused to be provoked. ‘There’s no great mystery to it,’ he said without turning around. ‘Go back eleven years. I’m in the Six-Four, bullshitting with the desk officer, when this kid walks into the house. His clothes are halfway to rags and he’s dirty, too, and scared out of his mind. The way he approaches us, it’s like a pigeon approaching somebody tossin’ crumbs on the sidewalk. He comes forward, turns back, comes forward again. Finally, I ask him what he wants. His mother, he tells me, is back in their apartment, dead from HIV, and he doesn’t know what to do.’
Boots dried his hands, then took a seat at the table. ‘It turns out the kid has no relatives to take him in. That means foster care, which is only a half-step from prison. Me, I do what all cops do. I hand him over to the social workers and try to put him in the past. Only I can’t forget how alone the kid looked, how helpless, like he was standin’ right on the edge, starin’ down into the pit, like he was ready to give up, to let himself fall. And me, Jill, I had it easy when I was a kid. I never worried for one second about havin’ a place to sleep, a roof over my head, food on the table, parents who loved me. Meanwhile, this kid, he’s been nursin’ his mother alone for the last six months, thinkin’ that if he loses her, he’ll be on the street.’ Boots tapped the side of his nose. ‘I became his foster parent first. A couple of years later, I adopted him.’
Jill spun her coffee mug between her palms. The son-of-a-bitch had snuck up on her again. If she didn’t jump his bones soon, she’d end up with an inferiority complex. ‘You’re not lying, are you?’
‘Catholic honor.’ Boots drew a cross over his heart. ‘But, really, it wasn’t a big deal. I enrolled Jackie in Mount Carmel and walked him to school on the first day. When he got to the door, I told him, “I can give you a place to live, put clothes on your back and food on the table, but I don’t have time to mold your character. You have to do it on your own. Sink or swim.”’
‘I assume he got the message.’
‘He’s a student at NYU.’ Boots experienced another moment of regret. NYU student sounded a whole lot better than sleazebag PI. ‘But enough with the soap opera. Jill, am I wrong to assume that you’ve been all over these files?’
Jill answered without hesitation. Maybe she was getting used to it. ‘No, you wouldn’t. I’ve been reading them for the last three years.’
‘Then let me ask you about Jules Cosyn and the task force. Did you find anything wrong with the investigation, any detail out of place?’
‘Boots, I personally interviewed the profiler and the shrink who examined Cosyn before he was declared unfit to stand trial. There’s no doubt he killed those women.’
‘And no reason to believe the investigation itself led to your father’s death.’
‘I know where you’re headed.’ Jill tossed her hair back.
‘Where’s that?’
‘After the task force closed the investigation, the boys went to Brooklyn North Narcotics, with Mack Corcoran as the unit commander.’
Boots slid his chair a little closer to the table. He hadn’t known about the boys going to Narcotics, though it made sense. The Chiefs who ruled the Puzzle Palace would have been overjoyed by the arrest of Jules Cosyn – serial killer investigations commonly ran on for years. Rewarding the detectives on the task force with choice assignments was par for the course.
‘Now, when you say “the boys”, are you including your father?’
‘My father, Corcoran, Parker, Olmeda and Artie Farrahan.’
When Jill Kelly lit a cigarette, Boots, though he fetched an ashtray, barely reacted. The nicotine demons were visiting him less often these days. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s a question I have to ask you.’
‘Was my father dirty?’ Jill was staring directly into Boots’s eyes, her own eyes marble-hard. ‘See, I know about the IAB thing on Parker. And I know certain snitches connected Parker to Maytag LeGuin.’
Boots let it ride for a couple of beats, then said, ‘I had to ask the question, Jill, because it was too obvious to leave out there. That doesn’t mean you have to answer.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Jill drew on her cigarette, sucked the smoke deep into her lungs, held it for just a second before releasing her breath. Finally, she looked away. ‘I can’t be objective about my father,’ she said, ‘but I can tell you this
. Dad’s finances were examined by a task force and he came up clean. Plus, there was no estate. Except for the pension, he pretty much died broke.’
Boots nodded, then leaned back, giving Jill some space. ‘What I’d like to do, unless you have a better idea, is take a look at your father’s house and the surrounding neighborhood. Your mother still lives there, right?’
‘I live there, too.’
‘Even better.’ Boots rose, walked to the hall closet and took his shoulder harness off the shelf. He shrugged into the harness, then into a corduroy sports jacket. The fit, he noted, was a little tight. If he didn’t start working out again, he’d have to cut calories.
‘You ready?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Boots would never know exactly when he became aware of the van. To be sure, the Ford Windstar entered his field of vision even before it turned on to the block, when it was still in the intersection. But he was too distracted to notice. First, there was Jill Kelly striding alongside him, the sunlight reddening her auburn hair. Then there was the caressingly warm June day and a steady breeze that riffled the branches of an oak planted long before his birth. Fianna Walsh and Jenicka Balicki didn’t help either. They were sitting in lawn chairs on the other side of the street, measuring Boots and his little visitor with greedy eyes.
Nevertheless, there were dead giveaways and he should have noticed. Antennas sprouting from the van’s roof like the shafts of spears, tinted windows dark enough to hide the occupants, the steady scratch-scratch of a rap tune playing at high volume, a throbbing muffler audible from a hundred yards away.
But he didn’t notice, not until the van suddenly accelerated, its tires chirping on the asphalt. Then everything jumped into focus, producing a kaleidoscopic overlay of details: the rear window coming down, the muzzle of a shotgun, the face of a black man, a shot from behind him, a splash of blood inside the van, the shotgun jerking up an instant before discharge, chunks of brick falling to the sidewalk as the van raced off.
Dancer in the Flames Page 16
