Jacklin strode back to his desk. He might need those pictures sooner than he thought.
50
Franciscus nudged the door to Vicki Vasquez’s office open with his foot and leaned his head inside. “You still here, Vick?” he called, struggling for a better hold on the moving box full of Theo Kovacs’s files.
“Still here,” came a voice from the filing cabinets.
“It’s me. I need a favor.”
“Coming.” Vicki Vasquez bustled in from the back room. Her jacket was buttoned. Her dark hair neatly combed. Franciscus noted that every PC in the office had been turned off; every desk immaculate. It was clear that she was in the closing phase of a well-executed campaign to get out of the office at quitting time. As she approached, she slipped her lipstick back into her purse. “Hey, Johnny, what you got there?” she asked.
“Somebody else’s junk,” he said.
“Need a hand?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” Franciscus set the box down on the corner of the nearest desk. “I need a favor, Vick. Shouldn’t take long.”
Vicki Vasquez planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve got tickets to the theater. A date, even.”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
“A minute?” She checked her watch and took a tentative step toward the door. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? You need me here at seven, I’ll be here at seven. Say the word. Just not tonight.”
Franciscus smiled apologetically. “I need an address on a retired cop out of Albany. Find out where they’re sending his pension.”
“A pension?” she asked.
Franciscus nodded. “A pension. That’s it. Then you’re free to go.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fugitive you turned up earlier? Bobby Stillman?”
“It does. I’m counting three homicides hanging on what you find out.”
At once, Vicki put down her purse and took a seat at the nearest terminal. “What’s the name?” she asked as she powered up the computer.
“Guilfoyle, Detective Francois J. Retired in 1980.” Guilfoyle might take his name off a case file, but Franciscus was willing to wager he wouldn’t skip out on his pension. It was congenitally impossible for a cop to turn down a government paycheck.
Vicki glanced over her shoulder at him. “It’ll take a few minutes. I’ve got to call downtown and put in an expedited request. Might be a little late in the day.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” He hefted the moving box. “You gonna make your play?”
“We’ll see.”
“I owe you,” said Franciscus. With over fifty thousand employees, the New York City Police Department was like an army. Only two of nine employees actually wore uniforms and carried a gun. The other seven ran the bureaucracy that supported them in the field. At the door, he turned around. “Hey, Vick?”
“Yeah?”
“He a nice guy?”
“All right.”
“Got a name?”
“Same one his mother gave him.”
“So . . . you like him?”
Vicki Vasquez put her hands on her hips and sighed in exasperation. “Go away and let me work.”
Franciscus carted the moving box across the hall and set it on his desk. The squad room was empty, which was the natural state of things. Detectives earned their living on the street, not watching The View. A sheaf of papers stuck out from beneath the box. The top form was titled “Disability Claim for . . .” The lieutenant had stuck a note on top with the name and number of a cardiologist. Franciscus slipped the papers out from beneath the box and shoved them into his desk drawer. Craning his neck, he scoped out the hall. The lieutenant’s office was dark. He checked the clock. Five-oh-five. It wasn’t the first time Franciscus was late with paperwork.
Standing, he began excavating the mess that was Theo Kovacs’s files. After a few minutes, a ten-inch stack of paper teetered on his desk, most of it made up of articles about the bombing of Guardian Microsystems, the shooting of the two police officers, and the siege that followed. Franciscus concentrated on the latter, in particular the sections detailing the shooting of Professor David Bernstein and the escape of his common-law wife, Bobby Stillman.
He was quick to find some major discrepancies in the outline of events. There were shots fired from the house. There were not. Police spotted several suspects inside the house. Police believed Bernstein to be alone. He had acted alone shooting the two police officers. He had acted with the help of an accomplice. The newspapers, however, were unanimous in stating that a second set of prints found on his pistol belonged to Bobby Stillman. Theo Kovacs had thought differently. If you believed his wife, it had cost him his life.
Franciscus spotted a brown folder that had the look of a case file at the bottom of the box. Prying it loose, he opened the cover and skimmed its contents for the fingerprint sheets. Bernstein’s prints were there, but he couldn’t find any others. Neither Bobby Stillman’s, as the various and sundry newspapers had reported, nor those belonging to the third party Theo Kovacs claimed to have discovered himself.
The police report made clear that at no time had the assailant, David Bernstein, fired at the SWAT team surrounding his house. Similarly, at no time had the police observed a second party in the house with him.
As Franciscus sorted through the stack of interviews and statements, he thought of Thomas Bolden. Half the city was looking for him in connection with the murder of Sol Weiss. Headquarters had blast-faxed a copy of his picture to every precinct with the order that it be copied and handed out to all patrolmen. But Franciscus wasn’t buying it all. First off, the tape was fuzzy. It looked very much like an accident. Second, there was the matter of the perp with the broken jaw who’d been released from 1 PP. And third was this business of blast-faxing Bolden’s picture all over hell’s half acre. For a second-degree-murder beef? The whole thing reeked of politicking, or worse. Mostly, John Franciscus wanted to know why a retired detective named Francois Guilfoyle wanted to question Bolden about Bobby Stillman, a woman who’d been a fugitive for a quarter of a century.
Grabbing a block of paper, he wrote down the facts as he saw them.
Bobby Stillman and David Bernstein had bombed Guardian Microsystems. When officers were sent to arrest Bernstein, they were shot and killed. Bernstein barricaded himself in his home and when police stormed it forty-eight hours later, he was killed by SWAT fire. Later, Theo Kovacs discovered that Bernstein had not died from the SWAT team’s fire, after all, but from a single gunshot wound to the head fired from eight or ten feet. And that the bullet had come from the same gun that killed Officers O’Neill and Shepherd, in theory Bernstein’s pistol.
Theo Kovacs discovered a second set of prints on the gun—ostensibly of the murderer—but his partner, Detective Francois Guilfoyle, discouraged him from following up on the lead. Kovacs went ahead anyway. Before he could share his discovery, he killed himself.
Twenty-five years go by, and the same Guilfoyle is chasing down Thomas Bolden, and asking him what he knows about Bobby Stillman and something called “Crown.”
Franciscus tossed his pencil onto the desk. Something was missing here, and he knew what it was. It was the set of fingerprints that Kovacs had found on the gun.
He put aside the case file and sifted through the remaining papers. There was a class shot from Kovacs’s days at the academy. Some snaps of the guys at work. Franciscus examined them, trying to pick out Guilfoyle. Eyes that look into your soul, Kovacs’s wife had claimed. A mind reader. Carnac. Franciscus settled on a creepy-looking guy with milk white skin and dark drooping eyes.
He put aside the picture and picked up Kovacs’s badge. It was his patrolman’s shield pinned to the cardboard backing that you wore under your shirt. The kid must have been one helluva cop. He had about six meritorious medals running above the badge. Definitely a comer. One of the pins came loose and he put down the badge. There was a trick that every cop knew to holding the medals in place. You needed
to pin ’em through your shirt to the tiny rubber stoppers found on crack vials. Worked every time. He picked up the badge to fix it, and it separated from the cardboard backstop altogether. “Crap,” he murmured, as the two pieces fell apart.
“John, I’ve got something for you!”
Franciscus tossed the badge onto the table and hustled into Vicki’s office. “What is it?”
“Guilfoyle’s address and phone,” she said, holding out a piece of notepaper. “Were you expecting an extra ticket to the show?”
“Not tonight,” he said, holding her eyes. “Now, get out of here. You’ve still got time to make it. But if the bum gets out of line, you give me a call.”
“Yes, Dad,” she said. She wasn’t taking her eyes away either.
With a sigh, Franciscus sat down at his desk. A name. An address. Francois Guilfoyle, 3303 Chain Bridge Road, Vienna, Virginia. Big deal. Guy wasn’t even hiding. He was happy to collect his pension every month and go about his business. Unexpectedly, Franciscus felt a lump form in his throat, a big rough-edged lump that felt like a chunk of coal. He read the name. Guilfoyle. He didn’t know the man. He’d never met him, wasn’t even sure what he looked like, but he hated him all the same. He’d screwed his partner. Franciscus didn’t have any proof, but he knew it was true, just like Katie Kovacs knew it. Theo Kovacs had come to him with a set of prints that did not belong on David Bernstein’s gun, prints that had no business whatsoever being there, and what did Guilfoyle do? He told him to forget about it. Case closed. Move on.
Franciscus frowned. That was not kosher.
When you were young and starting out on the force, you and your partner weren’t a team. You were a unit. Indivisible. One had a hunch, a lead, a whatever, and you both followed it. One of you was in trouble, the other pitched in. That didn’t just go for work. It also went for your personal lives. Advice, money, a pat on the back, you lent it. You didn’t tell him to go to hell. You didn’t . . . Franciscus couldn’t bring himself to say “kill him.” That was going too far. You didn’t pin murder on anyone until you had proof. That wasn’t kosher either.
Franciscus replaced all of Kovacs’s files into the moving box. He put the articles in first, then the police file. Finally, there was only the badge. He looked at it lying on his desk. The goddamn badge. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. Thirty years on, it still meant something to him.
He reached down to pick up the rectangular piece of cardboard backing and put the two back together. A corner of it had peeled away. A sharp-edged transparency protruded. He brought it closer to his eyes. “What the—” he muttered.
Opening his drawer, he found a set of tweezers and slipped the square free. The clear plastic was a little bigger than a stamp and folded into quarters. Unfolding it, he raised it to the light. The transparency showed a photograph of two perfect fingerprints. Handwriting at the bottom attested to the fact that the prints were dusted and lifted from the barrel of David Bernstein’s 11 millimeter Fanning automatic on July 29, 1980.
51
The fire door opened and a young African American woman showed her face. “You Mr. Thomas?”
“Yes.” Bolden hugged the wall next to the employee entrance of the Peninsula Hotel. A slim cornice one story up deflected the snow from his head and onto the toes of his shoes. In his dark overcoat, blue blazer, and flannel trousers, he could be the night manager waiting for his shift to begin, or a boyfriend wondering why his girl was always late.
“I’m Catherine. Come with me.” Without waiting for his acknowledgment, she turned and led the way inside.
Bolden followed at her heel. She was dressed in hotelier’s garb—black blazer, gray skirt cut below the knees, and a pressed white blouse. She walked quickly, never checking to see if he was keeping up. At the staff elevator, she pressed the call button and assumed her professional hostess’s stance. Hands folded at the waist. Head slightly bowed. But her eyes were anything but welcoming.
“I’ve put you in four twenty-one. It’s a junior suite,” she said as the elevator arrived and the two stepped inside. “Darius says to call if you need something else. Anything. He made me say it like that.”
Her name was Catherine Fell, and her official title was assistant front-office manager. Bolden had met her once over lunch at Schrafft’s. As a favor to her brother, Darius, he’d used the company’s pull to help Catherine get a job at the hotel. Darius Fell was his one great failure at the Boys Club, and not incidentally, the man who’d beaten him in a scant twenty moves at last weekend’s chess tournament. Chess, however, was one of Darius’s secondary endeavors. What captured the lion’s share of his formidable mental powers was crime. Drugs, guns, numbers: Harlem’s holy trinity. Darius Fell was a major player in the Macoutes street gang, the American offshoot of the feared Haitian secret police, the Tonton Macoutes. Un homme d’importance, according to the gang’s bloody hierarchy.
When they arrived at the room, she handed him a key. “You’re registered as Mr. Flanagan.”
“Thanks,” said Bolden, attempting a smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t take anything from the minibar.”
But Catherine Fell was immune. Her brother was bad news, and so were his friends. “Be out by nine P.M. Housekeeping performs a second room check. I don’t want them to ask any questions.”
The suite was as opulent as you had every right to expect for twelve hundred dollars a night. There wasn’t a square inch that wasn’t decorated, laden, or stuffed with elegant accoutrements. The quilted king-size bed, the claw-footed desk, the Egyptian divan, the chiffon curtains: All were done in warm golden tones of vast wealth.
Bolden grabbed an orange from the fruit basket and sat on the bed. He picked up the phone, then set it back in its cradle. He could not risk making a call that might be traced. Still, he couldn’t drive her from his mind. He turned on the TV. All three networks were showing the video of him shooting Sol Weiss. He closed his eyes, wanting to doze, but sleep wouldn’t come. He imagined Jenny asleep in his arms, her face the color of alabaster. Wake up, he wanted to tell her. We’ll start the day over. This never happened. But she didn’t move.
A sharp knock at the door startled him. He stood immediately. He had dozed, after all. The bedside clock read 6:05. “Yeah,” he called. “Coming. Who is it?”
“Martin Kravitz,” came the muted reply. “Prell.”
Bolden peered through the peephole. Marty Kravitz stood in the hall, briefcase in hand. He studied him for a few seconds, checking for a tip-off that he’d alerted the police or brought a second. Pressing his cheek to either side of the hole, he trained his eye down the corridor. Miles of golden carpeting stared back.
He opened the door. Turning swiftly, he made as if to return to the sitting room, showing Kravitz his back. “Come on in,” he said.
“How goes it, Jake?” asked Kravitz. “Not bad digs. If you’ve got to keep a safe house, this will do nicely.”
Bolden waited for the two-tone thud of the door closing properly. He let Kravitz catch up, then spun quickly and slugged the investigator in the stomach. Breath hissed out of him like a punctured tire. “I’m not Jake,” he said, shoving him against the wall, bracing a forearm under the man’s chin, raising it high so that he could look him in the eye. “Recognize me?”
Kravitz nodded, his eyes bulging. “Bolden.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Listen up. I’ll tell you this once, and only once: I didn’t kill Sol Weiss. The tape you saw was altered by . . . well, all you need to know is that it was altered. Got me so far?”
“Yeah,” croaked Kravitz.
“The way I see things, you have two choices: Come in, have a seat, and tell me what you’ve learned about Mickey Schiff, or struggle. If you put up a fight, I promise it’ll go badly for you.”
Kravitz raised a hand in surrender. “Okay,” he gasped. “Just relax. It’s all good. All good.”
Bolden released his pressure and stepped back. Kravitz stumbled down the hall and collapsed on a divan. In
his late forties, he was short with sloped shoulders and a runner’s wiry physique. His hair was curly and black. He had a long, bony nose and a weak chin, but his brown eyes were formidable. After a moment, he gathered his breath. “You’re in some deep kimchee, my friend.”
“You can say that again.”
Kravitz held his stomach, grimacing. “Here I was thinking I was doing scut work for HW’s next CEO. Oh well.”
Bolden sat down on the edge of the bed. “What did you find?”
“First, you tell me something. What makes you so interested in Schiff?”
“I have my reasons. Take my advice: You don’t want to know them. Let’s just say that Schiff’s a dirtbag.”
“If you’re trying to prey on my conscience, you can forget it. I checked it at the door when I started at Prell. We’re not in the good-fairy business.”
“I’m getting sick and tired of people telling me they don’t care what’s right and wrong,” said Bolden. “You want to know what my reasons are. Okay. Here’s one of them: Last night some men kidnapped me off the street and decided to ask me some very interesting questions while I was standing on the girder of a high-rise seventy stories above the ground. I had no idea what they were talking about, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t in the good-fairy business either. One of them had a tattoo on his chest that I’m pretty sure identifies him as working for the Scanlon Corporation. I did some checking and found that Mickey Schiff worked for a company that bought Scanlon twenty years ago. That good enough for you?”
“Marginal. I’d have added that he was standing right next to you when Sol Weiss got shot. I saw the tape, by the way. I take it you believe Schiff was involved with your dismissal from the firm. The coincidences are piling up. I’ll grant you that. Looks like you took out the wrong man.”
“I didn’t shoot Sol.”
“So you told me.” Kravitz sat back, crossing one leg over another. “At least I know why you filed a police report for felonious assault at the Thirty-fourth Precinct last night.”
The Patriots Club Page 29
