“Home, on my way in. Thanks, Karen. Take care.” She put the receiver down. “Damn,” she muttered. She went for a cigarette. The pack was almost empty. She was smoking too much, she realized. Nerves.
It was about fifteen minutes later when the phone rang.
“Got your message, Yvonne.”
“Listen Warren, I’m sorry I called the house. I hope Karen doesn’t think that — ”
He laughed. “It’s okay. What’s on the agenda?”
“We’ll talk. Pick you up in, say, half an hour?”
“Make it an hour.”
She pulled up in front of the house. It was a cozy setting. A tree-lined, dead-end street, made up of neat, comfortable middle class homes, all with tidy lawns and backyards. Within sight of the Whitestone Bridge. A safe and pretty part of Queens. One and two-car garages, barbecues, kids, and dogs. Damp, colorful autumn leaves were amassed in heaps. More leaves were falling in the wind, accumulating over the road. The weather was turning nasty again. More rain predicted.
She honked the horn. Karen Resnick came to the door, stood behind the screen. Her blond hair fell in curls. Yvonne waved, Karen waved back, but made no effort to come out and greet her. Moments later Warren appeared. She watched as he pecked his wife on the cheek, hurried toward the car. She could see his holstered gun as he put his arm through the sleeve of his sport jacket. His big Irish Setter barked and ran after him. Warren petted the dog, slammed the door as he got into the car.
Yvonne put the transmission into drive, pulled off toward the main road. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to pick you up.”
“Why?”
She took a sharp turn easily. “Karen,” was all she said.
“Don’t turn paranoid on me. I got enough crazies to contend with.” His attempt at humor didn’t register.
“She’s wondering about us — again.” There was a distant rumble of thunder, followed by a dim crack of lightning across the horizon.
“Yvonne,” he said softly but pointedly, “she knows we’re working together. You’re my partner. My damn superior, for God’s sake. Don’t make a case out of it.”
“I doubt she’s ever stopped wondering about us. And I don’t want to start giving her reason.”
He stared disconsolately from the window. Yvonne pulled into a gas station. “Ten dollars, unleaded,” she told the attendant. “Did you ever speak with her, Warren?”
“What?” He seemed distracted.
“Talk with her. Tell her about it.”
“No.” He leaned back and shut his eyes. “What was I going to say, anyway? These things just happen?”
“You could have started with the truth.”
“Please, Yvonne.”
She rolled down her window, paid for the gas and sped off toward Manhattan. “You know, I jumped at the chance to get you involved on this case, Warren. Not because I wanted to see you, but because you’re a good cop, and I needed the best I could find for my team. What I didn’t want to have happen is let Karen get mixed into any of this.”
“This is work. Plain and simple. Our work. She’s not mixed into anything.”
“But she’s wondering just the same.”
“She’s wrong if she is.”
She looked at him straightforwardly. “You’re a lucky bastard, Resnick, you know that?”
“Yeah? I don’t feel very lucky.”
Traffic was light and they made good time over the bridge. Yvonne twirled a cigarette between her fingers, but didn’t light it. She avoided the highway downtown, instead detoured and drove uptown through the street. “Where’re we going?”
“My place.” He seemed surprised and she laughed. “Ellen Booker’s under lock and key. I left her with Link. He’s catching some sleep. So I figured it would be easier if we all met there instead of HQ.”
“Okay with me. Central gets on my nerves anyway. Drab paint on dirty walls.”
“Hasn’t changed very much since you were there last.”
“Didn’t expect it would.” He turned silent, almost morose. Then said suddenly, “I never hid my having feelings for you, Yvonne. You work with a partner for so long — any partner — you begin to care about them. No, that’s not true, either. You weren’t just any partner. Our lives kept intertwining, things kept getting deeper, until they were out of our hands. We didn’t ask for it, and heaven knows we never intended it.”
She could feel a lump in her throat. More memories.
Don’t let them get to you, kid. It’s history. Put it away.
“I know, Warren, I know.”
“I never forgot you. I want you to know that as well.”
“How do you suppose it was for me? That night you got hurt, remember? Paramedics rushed you to the hospital. City wide phoned and I raced to be there, too. You were injured, and I couldn’t allow myself to think of anything else. When I arrived, Karen was in the room, sitting at your bedside with tears in her eyes. She turned and saw me standing in the doorway. I could feel the hurt she felt. See it written on her face. I felt so confused. Embarrassed, and like a fool.”
“You were my partner. You had every right to be there.”
“Sure I did. But she knew I was there as more than a partner. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, where to turn. I found a few words of consolation, and hurried out of there. Then I went back home to my empty apartment, and sat alone, staring at walls. Didn’t even turn on the lights. Know what I did, Warren? Stayed awake all night, and cried my eyes out. I wanted to be with you, and I couldn’t. Karen probably hated me then. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I had no right. No right — and that hurt.”
“It hurt me also.”
“Perhaps, but you could still look at yourself in the mirror. I couldn’t. Resnick and DiPalma. God, we were a pair.”
His hand brushed against the side of her face. “You’re crying,” he said.
She sniffed. “So what’s new? I’m always crying. Give me a break, okay?”
“I spent a hundred sleepless nights after your transfer, Yvonne. There were times I walked the floor like an alley cat. Smoked so much I coughed my lungs out. Stayed outside until dawn standing down by the bay, watching the waves roll over the breakers. Cold, teary-eyed, half the time wishing I were dead. Thinking things over. Always thinking. My mind like an engine that never turned off. Sometimes, after my shift, I’d drive down your street. Park somewhere in sight of your window. Did you know that? Like some lovesick kid. Once in a while the lights would be on; I knew you were inside, and my stomach turned into knots. Rookies in patrol cars would stare at me sometimes. All I wanted was to charge up there like a white knight in a fairy tale, drag you out of there screaming, if I had to, and whisk the both of us out of this godforsaken city.”
She tried to smile. “Maybe you should have done it.” He looked at her long and hard, then masked his emotion with a crack. “Breaking and Entering. Felony. Couldn’t afford the lawyers’ fees.”
“I’d have gotten you off, fella. Home free. Guaranteed.”
“You probably still could.” He held his breath. “Listen, Yvonne, if there were some way …
“Warren.” She stopped the car, double parking on a block very near to her home. “If I knew better, and I thought it wasn’t too late … ”
“Me too, Yvonne.” He squeezed her hand, and when she didn’t pull it away, he leaned over, lifted off her oversized glasses, and kissed her lips ever so lightly. “I’m still a dreamer at heart. Too damned romantic.”
“Don Quixote with a badge,” she said.
“Better believe it.”
“I do. It’s what made me fall in love.”
*
Yvonne quietly put the key in the lock. Ellen Booker was dressed and up. Restless and frightened. She’d been sleeping when Yvonne left. She jumped at the sound of the opening door.
“Hi,” said Yvonne cheerfully. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”
“I thought I was supposed to be in protective custody
.”
“You are.”
She pointed to the couch. Link wasn’t there. “Who’s watching who, huh?” she huffed. “First you run out on me, then the black guy disappears, leaves a note he’ll be right back. I wake up and find myself alone. Just great. You promised me, Yvonne. You gave your word.”
Yvonne’s eyes glanced from Ellen, to Link’s message, to Warren, and lastly back to Ellen. “Hey, calm down. He is coming back. What’s the matter?”
Ellen leaned her palms down on the table and glared. “What’s the matter? I’m scared. That’s what’s the matter.” She was visibly trembling. “And the phone’s been ringing off the hook. The other guy, he’ll be late, he says. Called three times. Not to worry, he tells me. I’ll be safe. Just goddamn great. You leave me here by myself.”
“Spinrad,” Yvonne said to Warren. “He must be onto something.”
“Yeah. Spinrad,” said Ellen. She was frantic, Yvonne saw.
“What did Spinrad say?”
“Something about photographs taken at Sally’s funeral. A make, an ID, whatever the hell it is you people call it. He wouldn’t say more.”
Yvonne tossed her coat over the back of a chair. She looked at Warren with excitement, her eyes saying, “We have something.”
Sally Cooperman’s funeral had taken place yesterday. Her parents had wanted a religious ceremony for their slain daughter. Jewish Orthodox. A dour-faced rabbi had given the eulogy to an overflowing crowd, many of them bursting with outrage over the young woman’s brutal murder. Ellen Booker had insisted on being present. It was out of the question. Protective custody meant just that; safely guarded by N. Y. P. D., and hidden out of sight. There was no way Yvonne could allow her to attend, no matter how close they had been. Not while she had become a possible target herself.
Meanwhile, a squad of plainclothesmen had quietly slipped among the mourners, several carrying small .35 millimeter cameras. They took photographs of everyone: family, friends, guests, and acquaintances, even the staff of the funeral home, all on the chance someone unexpected, but of interest, might show up.
“Stay calm, Ellen. No one’s going to find you or hurt you.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m scared shit. It’s not your life.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m not stupid. I can put two and two together. You think Sally’s killer may come after me.”
“We don’t know,” Yvonne said honestly. “If you are in jeopardy — and we’re not sure of that yet — then I’m in as deep as you. You’re staying at my house, remember? So if they find where you are, they have to get to me first.”
“Why don’t you get yourself some coffee,” said Warren. “Then we’ll talk.”
“How many times we gonna go over this?” Ellen slammed her hand against the wall. “I feel like I’m in jail. What else can I tell you? I’ve said it all a dozen times. Over and over. Why don’t you people just leave me alone?”
“I’ll make the coffee,” said Yvonne. Ellen slumped onto the couch dejectedly.
“Tell me about the phone call again,” said Warren, taking a seat opposite her.
Ellen massaged her temples wearily. “It was late in the evening, after the eleven o’clock news, I think. I was getting ready for bed. Sally seemed surprised.”
“Last time, you said you thought she was upset by the call,” he reminded.
“Yeah. That came later. You know, after they talked a while. At first she was pleased. Really happy. They hadn’t been in touch for ages.” She groaned, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen, if you know it all so well, why am I repeating myself like an idiot?”
“Bear with us, okay? We’re on your side.”
“Cops,” she mumbled.
“All we really need is the name, Ellen. Try to recall the name of the place where you were going to meet Sally’s friend.”
“If I could remember it, for sure I’d have told you yesterday. I don’t know.”
“But Sally did. And she even told it to you. All I want is to jog your memory a little.”
“For the love of God, leave me alone.” She turned away from Warren, hands covering her face. “Sally’s dead. What difference does it make? Leave her in peace. Stop trying to screw up my life. Nothing’s gonna bring her back.”
The doorbell rang. Warren went to the door, his right hand subconsciously reaching inside his jacket. Link’s face greeted him from the peephole.
“Miss anything?” said Link.
It took almost an hour until Spinrad arrived. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth, handed over a bulging folder. “These are the proofs,” he said. “Must be twenty rolls of film in there.”
Yvonne opened the folder eagerly, began to spread out the photographs. Spinrad had clandestinely attended the funeral, and one of the pictures she came across was of himself. “You’re not very photogenic.”
It was a profile shot, showing him standing in the back of the synagogue, arms folded, a yarmulke, a skullcap, on his head.
“You look like a mobster waiting to make a hit,” she chided. Everyone chuckled as she passed the 8x10 black and white glossy around. Spinrad scowled.
“I circled these,” he said, shuffling through one batch. Yvonne pulled off the rubber bank. She recognized the boyish face instantly. She gave Warren one of the glossies. He stared at it, gave it to Link. “It’s him. No doubt about it.”
“Jaime DeVicente.”
“Back in the U.S.A.,” said Yvonne. Better have somebody inform the FBI, instruct them to call off their Mexico City search. Our boy’s come home.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ellen.
“You don’t need to.” She turned to Spinrad. “Was he followed?”
He shook his head. “No one made the ID at the funeral. He walked right out the door. Vanished into oblivion.” Spinrad rubbed at the back of his neck. “Slipped right through our fingers. These PIU guys aren’t much good at anything. Remind me of the Feds. Luckily, I followed a few hunches of my own.” He smiled expansively. And Spinrad never smiled very much.
“You latched onto something?”
“Maybe. I did some checking around Sally Cooperman’s neighborhood. Showed the photos to a few contacts from the old days. Seems there’s a club in a back street down in the Village.”
“A hundred of them,” said Link. “Take your pick.” He smiled.
Spinrad ignored the interruption. “Disco-style place. Lucky Lady, it’s called.”
“That’s the name!” cried Ellen. “The place we were supposed to meet. I’m sure of it now.”
“Go on,” said Yvonne.
“There’s going to be a big party down there on Halloween night. Costume affair, a real fancy bash with all the trimmings these freaks like. Place holds hundreds. East Village types just come as they are, I suppose. Anyway, I followed it through. Asked around. Someone working there thinks this guy in the picture bought a ticket.”
Link licked his lips. “Way to go, DeVicente.”
“We’re talking about tomorrow night,” said Yvonne. She could feel her palms moisten, her heart beat against her ribs. It was their biggest chance yet. Maybe their only one.
“Doesn’t leave us much time to work with,” said Warren.
“Thirty-six hours. Enough. Enough to grab Jaime DeVicente and shake him up and down.”
Link felt cold. “And pray he can lead us to Vanessa Santiago.”
Link sat at the crowded bar nursing a beer. Every stool was taken, people clustered two and three deep around him. It was all the bartenders could do to serve all the requests. Recorded rock music pounded loudly from huge overhead speakers. The thrum of the bass and beat of the drums caused vibrations that rattled the floor.
A trio of young women sat to his left. Braless, dressed in designer jeans and expensive sweaters, they joked and flirted with nearby men holding drinks in their hands and spurring small talk. To his right were several couples deep in meaningful conversation. Color spotlights beamed from the ceiling. Strobe lights flickered; a dizzy
and swirling array blinking above the dance floor and tables. Blue, red, yellow, green.
The club attracted an odd mix: yuppies from SoHo mingling with intellectual types from nearby New York University, and the upper West Side. Students from the college mingled in their own groups, locals from the area in others. Greenwich Village artists, writers, aspiring actors and the like. A sprinkling of blacks and Hispanics peppered among them all. At the end of one side of the horseshoe-shaped bar, Link recognized a pair of high priced hookers. They sat quietly by themselves, aloof, sipping drinks while they waited for their johns, visiting businessmen. A handful of lower-priced streetwalkers cruised among the tables and darker recesses. Pot was being openly and liberally smoked among them all. Some of the tables were occupied by gay couples, homosexual and lesbian. Mostly, though, the bar was filled with jacket-and-tie visitors. Some out-of-towners, some Wall Street-types. The tourists seemed utterly baffled and simultaneously fascinated by the array of different types drawn to Lucky Lady.
The dance floor was crowded with gyrating male and female bodies. Hot, sweaty, tuned into the driving rhythm, silhouetted alternatingly by the flashing lights and the brief moments of darkness. Link’s roving eye glued to a pair of scantily clad, supple-breasted cavorting young women. They swayed their hips, shook their shoulders, clasped their hands above their heads while they danced. Really fine lookers, in his estimation, and he savored watching them move. He cursed softly under his breath, wondering where they had picked up the wimps they were with.
The song ended and the ladies fell into the arms of their dates. Link ordered another beer from the harried bartender and swung back around on his stool.
“Good stuff, huh?” the bartender said in a friendly way.
“Yeah.” He drawled the word. “Real foxes. Look at the tits on that one.” The pert little blonde who’d caught his eye had tossed off her shoes and was now dancing barefoot. She lip synced to the song, her long hair tousling with her teasing movements.
“Some of the best ass around comes down here,” said the bartender. “Women like her almost make it worth working in this zoo.”
Link winked, returned to his gazing. “She can rattle my cage anytime.” He stuck out his hand. “By the way, my name’s Wilson.”
Black Midnight Page 14
