I lifted the bottle and turned it in my hand, teasing the cap with my fingers, hypnotized by how the dusky light turned the dark amber liquid to soft gold. My mouth had turned to sand. I eased the cap off, closed my eyes, and the aroma of peat mixed with honey and oaken sherry and damp grass made me dizzy.
I stumbled to the bed and sat staring at the bottle, imagining the punch of molten sweetness slamming into the back of my throat and the numbing darkness it brought in its wake. My hands trembled with anticipation.
My gaze fell on the Glock. I picked it up. The Aberlour in my left hand, and the Glock in my right.
Options.
The lady, or the tiger? A sucker’s choice.
A loser’s choice.
I closed the cap tight, put the Glock back in the night table, and stretched out on the bed. Still nestling the bottle against my chest, I dropped into a fitful sleep and dreamed jumbled, quick-cut, dry-drunk dreams roiling with sinners, their black eyes burning with a mad fire, elbowing their way onto center stage, eager for their star turn.
Later — minutes, hours? I had no idea—I awoke to the sound of tumblers snapping. Suddenly, my apartment door opened. A small shaft of light knifed into the living room. And just as quickly disappeared. Then, the sound of footsteps —soft, puffy, magnified by the silence —on the wooden floor.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I eased the Glock from its drawer and waited. Heart beating like a Gene Krupa drum riff.
The footsteps stopped. The outline of a man filled the bedroom doorway. Something in his hand glinted in the dim light filtering up from the street.
I aimed the Glock at his midsection.
He took a shooter’s stance.
My finger closed on the trigger, releasing and closing until the clip emptied.
Like a scrap of paper caught on a rising wind, he blew backward into my living room.
I flipped on the light and walked over to him. He was on his back. His chest shredded. His left leg splayed in an impossible position. The throwaway gun still clenched in his fist.
I knelt down and pressed my index finger to his carotid artery.
No pulse.
I didn’t expect any.
The final piece had fallen into place.
CHAPTER
49
I called Swede.
“I just killed Pete Toal,” I said. “My apartment.” The silence lasted a few seconds.
“I’ll be right over,” he finally said. “Don’t do anything. I’ll call it in.”
Twenty minutes later, Swede arrived with a surprisingly small crew in tow — the ME, two crime-scene investigators, and one uniformed sergeant to tape and seal the apartment. It struck me as odd. A killing tends to attract lots of brass looking for face time with the press. But there wasn’t a media type around.
The crew set about doing their jobs with very little chatter and lots of urgency.
“How come you didn’t bring the cavalry?” I said. “Short-staffed?”
“We’re kind of keeping a lid on this,” Swede said, tightlipped. “Where’s your piece?”
I handed it to him. He dropped it in a plastic bag, sealed it, and handed it to one of the uniforms, mumbling something about preserving the chain of evidence.
Then he looked down at Toal, shook his head in disgust, and turned back to me.
“Fuck him! Let’s get a cup of coffee while they clean up the mess.”
We headed for a diner on Tenth Avenue. At two in the morning, business was brisk despite the rain. We found a booth in the back and ordered.
“What the hell happened?”
I told him.
“We were looking at Toal. Suspected him of all sorts of fuckaround but were on ‘wait and watch’ mode. Figured he’d lead us to more important people of interest.”
“People of interest?”
“His masters. But you screwed the pooch when you killed him, Steeg. The official line will be, the investigation continues, but without him we’ve got jack. And the scumbag gets an inspector’s funeral. That’s one of the things I hate about this job. Everything’s upside down.”
A few strings were finally coming together. “Maybe the pooch is still a virgin.”
The coffee came. Swede waited until the waitress left before he spoke. “I’m listening,” he said.
“How closely are you looking at Terry Sloan?”
His eyes narrowed. “What made you pluck his name out of the hat?” he asked.
“The only name that makes sense.”
He planted his arms on the table and leaned forward.
“OK,” he said. “What have you got?”
“You first.”
He gave a resigned shake of his head. “Why not?” he said. “That fucking sleazeball Sloan is the primary focus of our investigation. We believe the councilman is wetting his beak on city construction contracts, and Toal was his bagman. We were close to nailing him, and then you take Toal — our best shot at someone on the inside — out of the world.”
“Did you talk to the contractors?”
“Now, that’s a major whoop,” he said. “Even with promises of immunity, they become mute when we walk in the door.”
“So you don’t even have enough for probable cause.”
“Fuck probable cause. We’d have to have a bulletproof case. Who picks the fucking judges?”
“The bosses, like Sloan.”
“Right! And it’s a small, tight-knit fraternity. These guys aren’t going to bite the hand that puts them on the ballot unopposed year after year, not unless we leave them with no choice.”
“Would a murder charge help?”
“You’ve got my attention,” he said.
“Why did Pete come gunning for me?”
“Are you saying Sloan ordered Toal to hit you?”
“No, Terry would never do that. He knows Dave would strangle him with his own intestines. Toal acted on his own, bucking Sloan’s orders to lay off me. Toal’s world was coming apart. He knew it was just a matter of time before I nailed him for Noonan’s murder, and maybe even Ferris’s. And that would lead back to Terry. He simply had too much to lose by letting me live.”
“And the collateral benefit to Sloan was that with you out of the way, it would be back to business as usual.” He paused to consider this. “Could be.”
“And Toal would be an even fairer-haired boy in Terry’s eyes,” I said. “And that translates to more money in the bank.”
Swede nodded.
“And that’s your theory,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “Interesting.”
“And I’m sticking to it.”
Swede leaned back and a smile crossed his lips.
“One thing’s for sure, Steeg. You certainly lead a convoluted life.”
CHAPTER
50
Things were pretty quiet over the next two days. On the third day, everything changed. Dave called. He wanted to talk.
We met in Clinton Park. A full-court basketball game was in progress nearby. The day was warm, and they were sweating. One guy, a tall Hispanic, was a cut above the other players. He knew it and hogged the ball.
We watched for a few minutes.
“He’s good,” I said.
“Yeah, but not a team player. That’s why he and his buddies are gonna lose.”
“Maybe,” I said. “The other guys aren’t exactly all-stars.”
“Yeah, but they’re playing together, and in the end, teamwork is the key.”
We found a bench and sat down. Dave’s guys formed a loose perimeter around us. Kenny wasn’t among them.
It occurred to me that Barak went about his business alone. Round one to Barak.
“What’s on your mind, Dave?”
“You.”
“You want to expand on that a little?”
“You’ve got a big mouth, Jake.”
“That’s not new news, Dave.”
“But this time you went too far. You’ve been talking to the cops about Terry.
”
Why bother to deny it?
“You’ve got somebody in IAD,” I said.
“You’re surprised? Come on, Jake! I’ve got somebody everywhere. Terry’s very unhappy.”
“Good. Every time I can make that prick frown, another angel is born.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Let’s call it an aversion to slime.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m tired of slime. Tired of rubbing shoulders with it, tired of reading about it, tired of being around it. Maybe we put all of them — crooked CEOs, judges and politicians with their hands out, child molesters and rapists — in a cage and let them fight to the death in a Last Man Standing event.”
“Put it on pay-per-view. It would be a moneymaker.”
“Look, I’m no Mother Teresa, but some things just make you gag, and I can’t fix them. But there are a few things I can fix. And Terry Sloan is one of them. He had Noonan killed. I don’t know the reason yet, but I will.”
“Even if you fuck something up for me?” Dave said.
Now, that was something I hadn’t thought of.
“Don’t tell me you’re involved in this.”
“Interesting word, involved. Lot of leeway in there. Let’s just say that I have a financial interest in Terry’s enterprises. And you poking around might put them, and me, at risk.”
“It’s only money,” I said.
“Lots of it, actually.
“Why was Noonan killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Ferris?”
“Same answer.”
“Don’t you think it’s just a wee bit strange that Été was the common thread of two murders?”
“Hell of a coincidence, I’ll give you that.”
“Why is it coincidences spontaneously occur when reason is absent?”
“Jake, you’re in over your head here, and I don’t know that I’ll be able to protect you.”
“From Sloan? You have to be kidding.”
“No, he’s the front man. The shoeshine and a smile. I’m talking heavy hitters, the guys who play Monopoly with real money. They’ve got a lot at stake and aren’t about to let you piss in the punch.”
“Then I’ll have to deal with it.”
“It’s not as simple as that. For all I know, they have guys like Barak on retainer.”
“Dave, I’m past the point of caring.”
“Terry is going to walk, Jake. You know that, don’t you?
It’ll never even get to an arraignment, much less a trial.”
“You’re probably right, but at least he’ll have a few days of throwing up.”
“Is it worth it?”
“We all choose the hills we want to die on.”
“That we do.”
“I’ve got one more question.”
“Sure.”
“Why was Noonan killed?”
“You never let go, do you?”
“Would you?”
“He saw something he shouldn’t have.”
“And Toal was cleaning up the mess?”
“No more questions.”
After Dave left, I wandered over to the basketball court and watched the game. Dave was right. It was all about teamwork. The Hispanic guy was good, and that was his Achilles’ heel.
His team was heading into the tank.
CHAPTER
51
Strings.
They were everywhere. Crossing. Looping. Tangling. And with each day, new strings emerged. New tangles. New dead ends. It made my head hurt.
I left the park and walked to the river. There was a stiff breeze, and out on the water the few sailboats skipped over the light chop. Overhead, gulls hovered on the updrafts, keeping a keen eye out for a snack. And I was searching for a string. It was like playing cat’s cradle with one hand. Suddenly I realized that was the problem. I called Luce and asked her to meet me.
“Where will you be?” she said.
“Do you know the Trapeze School down on West Street?”
“Sure. Why there?”
“I’m tired of flying without a net and falling flat on my face. Figured I’d learn how it’s done.”
“Can I ask why the urgency?” she said.
“I need you to play cat’s cradle with me.”
A half hour later she arrived.
“The only reason I’m here is that I’m beginning to wonder about your sanity, Jackson,” she said.
“And here I was thinking it was love.”
“There’s that, and if I ever get a hankering for men, you’d be at the top of my list. But even you have to admit that you sounded totally nuts. Figured that erasing Toal maybe got you a bit off-kilter. By the way, no one’s talking about the shooting. Care to share?”
“All in good time.”
She sighed. “It’s hard having a friend who refuses to gossip, Jackson. It just ain’t normal.”
I shrugged. “What can I tell you?”
“Fine. You wanted to play cat’s cradle, and I’m here. So . . .”
“Actually, what I had in mind was a virtual version of the game.” I explained my dilemma.
“So you need help thinking through the maze.”
“Something like that.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Then I’d have to admit that I needed help. Well, maybe not help exactly. Let’s call it confirmation.”
She threw her hands up in disgust. “You really try me, Jackson. Where do you want to start?”
“At the beginning, with the looped string.”
“And that is?”
“Tons of real-estate development money. Here’s how it works. The city lets a truly obscene amount of money in construction contracts every year.”
“Makes sense. New York is growing in population. The old buildings need remodeling, and you need new buildings to accommodate the growth. This isn’t new news, Jackson.”
“But certain elected officials use these construction funds as their own personal piggy bank by gaming the rules.”
“Also not new news, but getting a whole lot more interesting,” Luce said.
“The funds are not allocated arbitrarily. To protect the rights of minority-owned businesses and to ensure that they get a slice of the pie, there’s something called the Minority Opportunities Bureau. It’s the approving agency for all contracts.”
“Power to the people!”
“Not quite. I have reason to believe the bureau is the piggy bank for Councilman Terry Sloan and his friends.”
“So, some whitey fat cats are fucking my people over again. What a surprise! Martin Luther King must be spinning in his grave.”
“Here’s the kicker. Ferris was the number-two guy in the bureau.”
She feigned shock. “A brother screwing over other brothers? Where will it end?”
“It’s good to see that you’re emotionally invested in this. May I continue?”
“Please.”
“Ferris had a boss, one Lou Torricelli.”
“The token white guy. Is he screwing over the brothers too?”
“I don’t know. But let me throw a few more strings into the mix. Ginny and Ollie.”
“The ex-wife and Mr. Skinhead.”
“The very same. Let’s start with Ginny. Turns out she and Ferris are in an open marriage.”
“Come on! That sweet little thing?”
“People change.”
“I’m just opining here, but could it be her new boyfriend took the whole thing too seriously and figured he’d remove an obstacle to true and enduring love?”
“Actually, they were each other’s alibi. Ginny claimed that they were together the night Ferris was killed.”
“The vixen.”
“I spoke to the guy. Works in the city. An attorney. Doesn’t seem the type to kill anyone. Seemed more frightened of his wife finding out than going down on a murder charge.”
“And that le
aves us with Ollie,” Luce said. “Didn’t he send those notes and make those phone calls?”
“He did. But what’s really strange is that Torricelli got some threatening phone calls also. Why would Ollie do that?”
“Maybe to get Ferris fired?” Luce said.
I made a mental note to ask Ollie about that.
“Ready for another string?” I said.
“I’m running out of fingers here, but go ahead.”
“Lisa Hernandez, Ferris’s assistant.”
“Where does she come in?”
“Shortly after Ferris is killed, she packs up and hightails it to parts unknown. Takes a leave of absence from her job.”
“Maybe the poor thing was so shaken by the violence that befell her boss that she’s off grieving somewhere.”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding address,” I said.
“Let me restate my last thought. She’s either scared shit-less, or the bitch is up to her ears in Ferris’s murder.”
“Exactly my thought. I make her for Ferris’s dinner companion. She was there the night he was killed as either a witness or a party to the act.”
“A reasonable leap of logic, Jackson. Please tell me you’re out of strings.”
“Just a few more.”
“Can we eat while we play?”
“Sure.”
I picked up a couple of hot dogs and Diet Cokes from a nearby stand.
“First that roach palace up in the Bronx,” she said, “and now this. You surely know the way to a girl’s heart. And you even remembered to bring napkins. My, my.”
“Wouldn’t want you to get mustard all over your pretty new suit. Now, where were we?”
“More strings.”
“Right. That brings us to Noonan.”
“The guy who worked at Été until he was murdered.”
“The very same,” I said. “Turns out that Terry Sloan owns a piece of the restaurant.”
“It’s good to put your crooked money to work, especially in a restaurant where Ferris had his last meal.”
“According to Dave . . .”
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