COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “Not bad though?”

  “Not bad. What brings you in?”

  Our eyes locked and I knew she knew before I said “Scotty”

  She took a breath. “You found something?”

  I laid the files in front of her. “I don’t know. Scotty has fifty or so files at the apartment. These three were among them. But everything’s gone from them, except the picture.”

  A puzzled line creased her brow. “And that means?”

  “I was hoping Samantha might know what he was doing. Look at the name on the top file.”

  “I made Samantha take the day off,” she said as she looked at the top folder. Her shoulders stiffened. “Scotty’s sister.” She picked up the folder as if it were contagious.

  “All that’s in it is a photo. But look inside. There was something stapled that’s not there anymore.”

  She followed my instructions and then flicked at the staple with a French manicured fingernail. “Strange.”

  “Is there a file on her here?”

  Putting the folder down, Amanda came from around the desk and went to the first cabinet on the wall of file cabinets. She opened the second drawer and ran her hand along the top. A few seconds later, she pulled out two file folders. “Joanne Granger and Teddy Granger, but there’s no Elizabeth.”

  She handed them to me. The first file held a picture of a four-year-old boy. The page behind it was marked in red ink with a date and a single word in capital letters: DECEASED. I swallowed hard and heard Gina again. ‘Why do we kill our children?’

  The second folder yielded the photo of a red headed fourteen-year-old girl with huge brown eyes and a wide purple colored brace enhanced smile. I flipped past the photo, exhaling the breath I hadn’t known I was holding when I didn’t see any red letters. I read the papers and handed both files back to Amanda.

  “How does she do it?”

  “How does who do what?”

  “Samantha Collins? How does she come in here, day after day, and deal with this shit?”

  Amanda’s face reflected the understanding of my reaction. “She does it because she isn’t dealing with…shit as you call it; she’s dealing with her own needs, her own guilt. She does what you do, Gabe, when you take on a case no one else will touch. Every child she rescues. Every child she finds helps to ease her guilt. Her son was abducted when he was three—taken from her front yard while she changed her baby’s diaper inside. She’s never forgiven herself for leaving him alone and she makes restitution to him every day when she walks in here.”

  I got it: Samantha Collin’s guilt had forged a new purpose in her life, not unlike how what had happened had set me on a different path. And while it wasn’t guilt driving me, I better understood the deep motivation behind Samantha Collins.

  “It’s not guilt, Amanda, not for me.”

  She fixed me with her I’m the shrink look. “Don’t deny this, not to me, Gabriel. You can fool yourself and others that what you do is because of your time in prison, you and I both know its because of the guilt you feel for not having been able to save Elaine: for spending the extra half hour at the restaurant with the crew from the play and coming home too late to save her. Everything you’ve done since then - all the good things - comes from one thing.”

  I nodded toward the files. “What about these?”

  She took my dismissal in stride and, five minutes later, we had gone through the files without any luck.

  Then I reminded her of Scotty’s journals and went over the last entry without telling her the woman was Lia Thornton. That would come later, after she’d read the journal. She listened intently and then fixed me with an almost eager stare. “You told me the other day you were going to get me a copy, but I never got it.”

  “I forgot,” I admitted, annoyed at myself. “I’ll get them to you as soon as I get home.”

  “Good. Perhaps I’ll be able to spot something in them. The files at Scotty’s apartment should be compared to what’s here. Maybe you can learn what he was doing with them.”

  It was a good suggestion. I gave her a goodbye kiss, went into the main room and did the same to little Anna. Fifteen minutes later, I was at the hospital, sitting next to Rabbit.

  He didn’t look any the worse for wear, which is saying a lot for Rabbit. His shoulder was wrapped tight, his arm was held immobile in a cast and hooked up to a rope and pulley system suspended above the bed. His face was free of pain and he seemed glad to have a visitor. A Yankees game was on the television, and the Bombers were winning six to three.

  “I ‘preciate you takin’ care of da bills, Teach.”

  “You were on my clock. How much longer are you stuck here?”

  “Doc tol’ me I’d be outa here in anoder week.”

  “Are you still living with your sister?”

  “Yeah, a hunerd and tent street. You know da place.”

  I did. It was an old brownstone carved up into fifteen or so apartments in an area the uptown revitalization either had missed or hadn’t reached yet. It was low rent and poorly maintained, but livable.

  “I help out wid da rent an food when I can,” he added.

  “I need to ask you about that day.”

  He looked at his shoulder, then back at me. “Sure.”

  “You said you talked to a lot of people about Streeter and then you talked to two guys, regarding Scotty’s murder, right?”

  He nodded. “Dose was da last ones I talked ta.”

  “How long after did you get picked up?”

  He looked up at the television for a moment. “Da nex day.”

  “You think it was because of them or the other people you talked to?”

  He shrugged and winced. “I don’ know, Teach. I been doin’ some tinking on dat, but I don’ know.”

  “Streeter killed the girl I was looking for.”

  Rabbit’s eyes widened. “No shit. Dat ain’t good.”

  An eloquent summation did Rabbit give. “No, it’s not. Makes me think it was the last two you talked with.”

  Rabbit nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Any thoughts?”

  His eyes went to the television, but it was easy to see he wasn’t watching. I sat silent while I waited for him to look at me again. “Dere was one guy, Johnny Woo. He’s a numbers runner, woiks Eight and Nint Avenues. Tinks he’s tough. Runs da numbers and does some side woik for…ah, da boys.”

  “Where does he hang?”

  Rabbit’s eyes turned scared, but he bit it back. “Days he out on da street. Nights he hangs at McRoys, da place on Fordy-Nint and Tent’. But Teach, he knows it was me who be askin’.”

  “They won’t mess with you any more Rabbit.” Rabbit had been valuable because he could get me to them. He couldn’t do that anymore and they knew it.

  Standing, I gave him a wink and told him to enjoy his stay and to let me know when they sent him home. Outside, the heat of the day was starting to break and dusk was settling over the city. I flagged a cab and headed back uptown. I was hungry and needed to wait for the real night to come before I started looking for Johnny Woo.

  I laughed. The driver’s eyes flicked up to the rearview but he stayed quiet. There was no need to enlighten him about how I felt like Rabbit had put me into one of my old movies and sent me looking for the illusive Chinaman. All I needed was a pork pie hat and a trench coat to step into the part.

  Chapter 31

  It was in-between time at O’Brien’s, the time when the early eaters had finished and the next rush hadn’t started. There were maybe a dozen people occupying the pub, all but two were at tables.

  My favorite table, one near the back, was open and I slid into the seat with my back against the wall and my eyes forward. Tim O’Brien had already poured a Tsingtao and Charlie, short for Charlene, the waitress who had been handling this section of the pub for the last few years was on her way to pick it up.

  When she came over and set the glass down, I smiled at her. “Slow night?”

  She returned the
smile. “For now, but it’ll get crazy in an hour or so. How are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m good. Any specials?”

  “Besides me,” she said with an impish smile. “Sean’s got beef ragout.”

  The last thing I was in the mood for was stew. “You think he’d be insulted if I got a hamburger?”

  “He’s not paid to be insulted, Gabe, he’s paid to cook. The usual?”

  “The usual.” The usual was a half-pound hamburger cooked just shy of medium with sautéed onions and mushrooms piled on and squeezed between the two halves of a Kaiser roll.

  When Charlie sauntered off to the kitchen, I took a sip of the beer and watched the pub door open and two men walk in. The lead man took five steps before I made him. He was short and thin and wore his premature white hair in a crew cut showing off a summer deep tan. His eyes tracked around the pub until they settled on me. He pointed to a table against the wall, halfway between where he was and where I sat.

  His companion, a man ten years younger and five inches taller went to the table while Joe Hawks, the Times Drama Critic, came straight at me. He didn’t ask for an invitation when he appropriated a chair, flipped it around and straddled it.

  He leaned forward and stared hard. “I’ve been waiting for a call from you.”

  “And you’ll get it when the time comes.”

  “It’s been a week, Gabe. Did you see the article in today’s paper?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

  “Then do so. It’s a good piece, you’ll like it, but, people are wondering what’s going on.”

  “I know they are.” I took another drink of the beer and deliberately took my time setting it down. “You were going to look into things.”

  His eyes turned into twin spotlights. “I was and I am. So far, I haven’t come across anything worth mentioning. Have you?”

  “Not yet, Joe. I’ve got a few possible leads, but nothing solid.”

  “My crime guy is getting ready to do a piece blasting the police for dragging their feet.”

  “Won’t do him any good. They’re doing what they can.”

  “Which isn’t much, is it?”

  “Sonny Marks is lead on the case, and he’s chasing his tail,” I said, offering him some bait.

  “He’s working it as a robbery?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re not.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Between us?” His eagerness was palpable.

  “That’s the deal.”

  “I’ve looked at all the Angels with the big bucks into the play. As far as I can tell, none come across as suspects.”

  “What about Jonathan Mondale? I heard they pulled him in.”

  “He’s not a suspect. And Joe, he is a good guy who’s had a bad start in life. Remember this conversation when the play is reviewed.”

  “Are you asking for something?”

  “If he’s good, it should be noted.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. What else,” he said, ever the bulldog at the bone.

  “Joe, what do you know about predators-“

  “Sexual predators?”

  “Yeah. The ones who grab little kids and make them disappear - the ones who use the Internet to suck in kids—predators.”

  He studied me for an uncomfortable time; wheels churned behind curtained blue eyes. “Scotty was into -“

  “Don’t even think it,” I snarled. But he held up his hand to stop me.

  “Scotty was into stopping that. Is that what stopped him?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just another angle I’m going to look into.”

  “But the cops don’t think so?”

  “I don’t think they looked deep enough yet.”

  “We still have our arrangement. I get this before the young bloods.”

  “You get it first, so you can write it the way it should be.”

  “I will. Anything you need from me?”

  “No, go back to your friend.”

  “Newbie. He’s the nephew of the Editor-in-Chief. They started him in my department so I’m showing him the ropes.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Eva Montourn is previewing her one woman show for the VIPs at the Lunt-Fontanne.”

  “You do lead the hard life.”

  “If it means anything, I like Albright as the doer.”

  “That’s pretty mean-hearted, even for a Broadway critic. Why?”

  Hawks stood and reversed the chair. “I never liked the man. He makes his money riding other peoples’ backs. On their blood, too.”

  “Enjoy the show,” I said as Charlie delivered my burger. But Joe stayed put. His expression had changed into a troubled look.

  “What?”

  “Are you ever coming back?”

  I closed my eyes, fought off the emotion and opened them. “I don’t know Joe.”

  “You know, Gabe, when someone has the kind of talent you do, and doesn’t use it, that’s a crime too.”

  “Joe-“

  “Just something I’ve wanted to say for a few years. Eat your dinner,” he added before spinning on his heels and walking back to his table.

  I shoved off his words and got down to the business of eating. I’m not sure what it is about a good burger, but the taste is unique, and once I bite into it, I can’t stop until it’s finished.

  It was good, and I used the fries and a second beer as dessert. If Gina’s senses were working right, I needed to reset my own thinking and start moving in a forward direction rather than on some lateral quest.

  So my next step, I decided, would be to call the upstate cop whose name Samantha Collins had given me—Sam Cohen. I pulled my cell and dialed the number, planning to leave a message. I didn’t expect him to be there on a Sunday night.

  “Sheriff’s Department.” The operator was a woman.

  “I’d like to leave a message for Sam Cohen.”

  “The Sergeant is in, I’ll transfer you.”

  There was a single beep and two rings later, a deep voice answered with, “Cohen.”

  “Sergeant Cohen, My name is Gabriel Storm. I’m a private detective in the city.”

  “Yes, Mr. Storm, Samantha said you’d be calling. This concerns the McNickles girl?”

  I wasn’t surprised. “Samantha said you were the best with this type of thing.”

  “Interesting phrase, ‘this type of thing’. You mean predators that use the Internet?”

  “And the ones who abduct children. I’d like to pick your brain.”

  “I’m due in Omaha tomorrow. I’ll be in the office on Thursday.”

  Now that I was moving on things, I didn’t want to wait and told him so.

  “My flight is for noon tomorrow. You know where Stewart Airport is?”

  “Newburgh.”

  “I’ll be there at ten. We can talk before I leave, if that works for you.”

  “It does. Thanks.”

  “She was a good kid who had a bad start. What happened wasn’t right. You have a doer on her?” The rough tone of his voice told me he was a cop who cared.

  “I have some thoughts on it.”

  “I’ll see you at ten.” He hung up and I closed my phone.

  Standing, I put some money on the table and started out. I waved to Joe Hawks, sidestepped to the bar, shook Tim’s hand, and left O’Brien’s just after nine. The streets were quiet, but would soon come alive.

  Five minutes later, I set the file folders on the counter, went into the bedroom and dressed for the night. After adjusting the Sig in its shoulder harness and slipping on a sports jacket, I returned to the kitchen and saw the answering machine message light blinking.

  The first message was from Femalé, letting me know her room number. She said she planned on hitting the library first, then the records department at city hall. After that, she would speak to Bill Kelly, the cop who I told her to call.

  The next call was from Lia Thornton. Her voice was throaty, not as smooth or husky as Femalé b
ut sensual none-the-less. She asked if there was any new information on the shooting at her apartment, or on the case itself. I wondered how she’d gotten my number.

  The third and last call was from Amanda Bolt, reminding me to send her the journal.

  I erased the calls and went into my small home office, cranked up Scotty’s apple and when it was humming, made sure it was connected to the wireless router and emailed the journal files for the two months prior to his death.

  I shut the computer down and started out. In the kitchen, I grabbed the phone, called the garage, and told the attendant to have my car ready at eight-thirty tomorrow.

  I had one more call to make. When Tarz answered, I asked him for a favor. Then I glanced at the wall clock. It was quarter to ten, time to go find my chinaman.

  <><><>

  The streets were picking up: The city’s night dwellers were emerging from their caves to begin prowling. The hookers were setting up their staked out turf, and traffic was building.

  It didn’t matter what night it was, nighttime business on the streets always thrived. I crossed to the south side of Forty-ninth and headed west. Halfway down the block a woman called my name.

  It was my old friend Lilah, coming down the stoop of an old brownstone. She was dressed in a mini skirt and short white boots. This time her halter-top overflowed. The ebony skin of her chest and shoulders glistened with some sparkly stuff and her makeup was applied heavy to hide the fact she was getting too old to be working the street. Her brown hair was in braided extensions gliding down her back and ending with blonde tips.

  “Starting late for a Sunday night, aren’t you?”

  She smiled. “I’ve been working. Sunday night’s a different crowd.”

  “You know Johnny Woo?”

  Her dark eyes scanned my face. “Yeah, I know him. He’s been around a couple of years.”

  “Anything I should know?”

  She shrugged. “I saw him get into it with someone a few weeks ago. He’s fast. It took him three seconds to put the guy onto the sidewalk. Karate or some shit like that.”

  “Thinks he’s tough?”

  “Don’t know. He’s got one of those faces, you know… unshrinkable. Can’t tell what he’s thinking.”