The patrol officer strolled over, frisked him, and pulled the Beretta from Decker's waistband. He stared at it, turned it over, then stared at it again. He said, 'Nice. Standard issue?'
Decker lowered his arms. 'One of our options.'
'Nice,'repeated Melino.
'You want to check my carry license?' Decker asked.
The cop shrugged. 'Yeah, sure.'
Decker pulled it out of his wallet. Melino gave it a quick glance, then returned his eyes to the Beretta. 'You don't have a clip.'
'I know that,' Decker said.
'This for show or what?' the cop asked.
'No, it's my piece,' Decker said. 'I just didn't think it was a good idea to come in here with a loaded semiautomatic'
Melino handed the gun back to Decker. 'What can I do you for?'
'I need to file a missing-persons report,' Decker said. 'A local boy - thirteen.'
'Local? One of the hasids?* the cop said.
Decker smiled. The cop pronounced it 'chasid' with a soft h, just like he did.
'Yeah, kid's a black hatter.'
'Is he a mental problem?' Melino said.
'Not that I know of.'
'How long's he been gone?'
'About fifteen hours.'
'And you're just filing a report now?' the cop asked. 'Usually we get kids missing, we get a hysterical parent in here in two to three hours.'
'You get a lot of missing kids in this area?'
'Nan,' Melino said. 'I can think of only a few in ten years. So many damn kids in this precinct it's hard for a parent to keep track of them. This precinct's one of the few in New York with a Community Patrol Officers Program - beat cops. When we get a missing kid, we assign a C-POP officer to go out and find the boy - they're usually boys. We almost always find the kid at a friend's house and he forgot to tell his mother where he went.'
'Yeah, I thought that might be the case,' Decker said. 'Reason I didn't file earlier is because I wanted to do a door-to-door and a street search—'
'You already done those things, there's nothing more we can do except file the report,' Melino said.
•Yeah, I know.'
'You a family friend or what?'
'A family friend.'
The cop said, 'Go inside. Desk sergeant named Weiczorek will help you out.'
Decker passed through the entry cubicle and into the main precinct.
And he'd thought his station house was in need of repairs.
The room looked like an unfinished basement. There were exposed pipes and electrical wires vining down the walls, fluorescent tubing running across the ceiling. Immediately to his right was a wall lined with rusted file cabinets that probably contained old cases - all out in the open. The main reception area was about twenty by
forty feet, bisected by a corridor floored with the same washed-out-green marble he'd seen in the sally port. The corridor led to a wall made up of the same mustard tiles and several closed doors - no doubt the offices of the higher-ups. In the back corner was a table that held t computers with keyboards, a typewriter, a pea-green phone, a paper cup with lipstick marks, and a stack of papers defying gravity. Above the table were more exposed wires, a junction box, a wall-mounted cabinet of keys, a small map of the precinct, and a framed rapid mobilization plan hung too high to be effectively read - even for a man his size.
Flanking the corridor on the right was a long cubicle enclosed by a one-way mirror - probably the dispatch area. In front of the mirror were royal-blue plastic chairs bolted to the floor and a seven-foot locker decorated with a poster of a group of police officers, the caption saying that New York was looking for 'THE finest.' On the left side of the walkway was the reception desk fronted by a four-foot high wooden barrier that spanned the length of the room. The front desk was filled by a computer, a log-in sheet, and loose papers. Behind the desk was a cork bulletin board covered with memos, business cards, wanted posters, and two Polaroids - a snapshot of a missing old man and a picture of a pit bull. Under the dog someone had written, 'He goes for the nuts*
The place smelled old and tired. Decker thought about a policeman's lot in life, then felt something nuzzle his leg - the mangiest golden retriever he'd ever seen. He thought of his own dog, an Irish setter. On her worst days, Ginger never looked so disheveled. The dog's breath was noticeable even though Decker's nose was a good six feet above the animal.
'Our mascot,' said a male voice. 'Gertrude.'
The man was sitting behind the reception desk, doing some paperwork, eyes focused downward. He had a broad face made wider by a crushed nose, and a square jawline. His eyes were deep-set, his brows heavy and continuous. His lips were full and a cigarette was dangling from his mouth.
Decker said, 'That dog's the ugliest thing I've ever seen.'
'Ugly doesn't bother me,' the man said. He looped his hand over his shoulder and scratched his back. 'It's the fleas that are the real killers.' He looked up from his desk. 'You waiting for someone or what?'
'I need to file a missing-persons report,' Decker said. 'You Sergeant Weiczorek?'
'I was last time I checked my birth certificate,' Weiczorek said. 'Which precinct are you from?'
'I'm not with NYPD,' Decker said. 'It's a local kid. I'm doing a favor for the family.'
'But you're definitely a cop,' Weiczorek said. 'You got the look.'
'Los Angeles,' Decker said.
'Can spot 'em a mile away,' Weiczorek said. He stubbed out his cigarette. 'Hop over the fence. Tell me about the kid.'
Decker stepped over the wooden barrier. The precinct was having a quiet night - a few uniforms wandering in and out, muffled voices dispatching calls from behind the one-way mirrored cubicle, not a perp in sight. He gave Weiczorek Noam's vitals, then showed him the picture. Weiczorek punched the data into the computer.
The desk sergeant said, 'Sometimes another precinct will pick the kid up without ID. Computer will spit out
anything that seems like a match. Takes a few minutes.'
Decker nodded, stared over Weiczorek's shoulder, hypnotized by a flashing waiting that blinked on the computer screen.
Weiczorek seemed hypnotized too. Without looking up, he said, 'You do a door-to-door?'
'Yes. Nothing.'
'Street search?'
'Five hours.'
A sudden scream echoed through the walls.
/know de law, man! I wan' myfuckin 'phone call!
Weiczorek looked up and called, 'Melino, take care of Mr. Torrentes.'
Melino disappeared behind the mirrored cubicle.
'You've got your holding cells pretty close to the desk,' Decker said.
'That's cell in the singular,' Weiczorek said. 'And yes, it is close to the front desk 'cause we ain't got no room anywhere else. If we run outta room in the cell, we chain 'em to the pipes. Once, a perp took offense to this and gave himself a shower with thirty-degree water. Goddamn place oughta be condemned.'
Weiczorek scratched his head and said, 'Here we go... The Seven-Two has a kid. That's Crown Heights -another pocket of black-suiters. Boy like yours would certainly blend in there.'
He picked up the phone and dialed the precinct. Decker held his breath as Weiczorek asked about the pickup.
Weiczorek said, 'Yeah, I'll wait.' He turned to Decker and said, 'They're checking it out for me.'
Melino returned, announcing that Mr. Torrentes had apologized for using bad language.
'Didn't he get his phone call?' Weiczorek asked.
'First thing, Sarge,' Melino said. 'But he was too stoned to remember it.'
'Did you log it?' Weiczorek said.
'You bet,' Melino said. 'Made it at ten-oh-seven.'
Weiczorek waved his hand in the air. 'Idiot don't remember a damn thing.' He picked up Noam Levine's picture and said, 'You know, this one looks familiar.'
'Where do you think you know him from?' Decker asked.
'I think he's one of the wilder boys around here,' Weiczorek said. 'Every so often, the boys i
n this area go nuts, start breaking things. These teenage boys sit all day in school, studying till dark. No physical activity, hormones running wild, no contact with the females. Just awhile back a group of 'em smashed up a parked bus that runs through the area on Saturday. It was a pile of junk by the time we got there and the little suckers ran off before we could catch any of them. Think the rabbis helped us out?'
•No?'
'Couldn't squeeze a drop of piss out of them as far as who the perps were. But they assured us that they'd take care of the boys who did it. This kid...' Weiczorek hit the photograph with the back of his hand. 'I think he was one of them.'
Decker nodded, not surprised at all. 'You get into a lot of conflicts—'
Weiczorek interrupted him with a palm-up sign. 'Yeah, I'm still here. No, that's not him. Thanks.' He hung up. 'Unless your boy's got nappy hair and a dark suntan, we ain't talking about the same kid.'
Damn, Decker thought.
Weiczorek said, 'You was saying before I interrupted you?'
Decker thought a moment. 'I just wondered if there was a lot of tension between the locals and the law.'
•Not much,' Weiczorek said. 'They're pretty easy once you know what to expect. You don't muscle these people around. They get mad - not violent but stubborn as a constipated mule. Give you an example. About three years ago one of the officers who hadn't worked long in this district gave a jaywalking ticket to one of the rabbis. Well, it was on a Saturday and the rabbi wouldn't sign the ticket 'cause it was against their law to write on Saturday.'
Decker nodded.
'The young buck...' Weiczorek smiled. 'He thought the old man was bullshitting him and was determined to show him who was boss. He hauled the old man into a cruiser. Next thing he knows he's got about a hundred rabbis and associated black-suiters laying down in the street. The officer and his car ain't going nowhere.' Weiczorek laughed. 'A week later the guy transferred out of here. Know where they sent him?'
•Where?' Decker asked.
'Williamsburg.' Weiczorek burst into laughter. 'He thought these guys were bad, those blackies in Williamsburg don't take no shit. Mean, rotten tempers. They got this cattle call - chaptzum. It means grab him. Someone calls out chaptzum and every person on the block comes pouring out and pounces on the poor schmuck who made the mistake of mugging the wrong person.'
Weiczorek laughed again.
'About a week ago, the Nine-Oh found three Puerto
Ricans beat up pretty bad and stuffed into an empty trash bin. Nobody died and the PRs ain't talking so we really don't know what happened. At first, we thought it was some sort of turf thing with the gangs - who cares about them beatin' each other up, right?'
Decker nodded.
Weiczorek went on, 'Except one of the cops duly noted that the PRs had been shitcanned in the Jewish section of Williamsburg right next to one of their all-boys high schools. Course no one will say nuthin' - you question the rabbis and all of a sudden they only speak Yiddish. Been living in this country for all of their lives, and they only speak Yiddish.'
'Weird,'Decker said.
'Glad to hear you say that,' Weiczorek said. 'I think it's weird, but what do I know? You hear them in their schools, teaching the first-graders "Das es einA. Das es ein B".' He shook his head. 'Wanna know my opinion, I think those Puerto Rican scumbags were up to no good and the Jew boys chaptzummed 'em.'
Weiczorek ruminated on his theory for a moment. 'I say more power to them. They want a safe neighborhood, they're not afraid to fight for it.'
'They take care of their own,' Decker said.
'Exactly,7 Weiczorek said. 'Gotta take care of your own. That's the trouble with America today. Everybody's only looking out for themselves.' He scratched his head again. 'Sorry we couldn't give you good news. I've got the family's number; I'll personally keep my eyes open. Maybe something'U turn up. Usually, the kid comes home after a few days. Course, that doesn't make the waiting any easier.'
Decker felt sick. The prospect of facing the family was
wearing him down like sand in a motor. And he knew that there was going to be a big scene at the suggestion of putting some new blood on the case.
Stubborn as a constipated mule.
Not the type of people to let go easily.
'Let me ask you this,' Decker said. 'Think he might have holed up in Prospect Park?'
'Not likely,' Weiczorek said. 'Being a native, he'd know better. Besides, it's cold outside.'
'Well, maybe I'll take a look anyway.'
'Up to you,' Weiczorek said. 'Just keep the door locked and the engine running.'
Decker said, ' 'Predate your help.' He pulled out an identification card and gave it to the desk sergeant. 'You ever need a favor from our boys in blue, give me a call.'
Weiczorek studied the card, nodded. 'Detective Sergeant First Grade - you must be a hot dog.'
Decker said, 'No, not a hot dog. I'm like your pit bull posted on the board. I go for the nuts.'
Weiczorek laughed. 'I'll pass the word along, tell the cruisers to pay special attention to this one. New York, Los Angeles, it don't matter. We cops take care of our own.'
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
He'd had enough of waiting.
Sitting in school waiting for the bell to ring, sitting at home on Saturday waiting for the sun to go down, sitting at the dinner table waiting to be excused. Waiting around for the old man to clean and clear the fish cases.
The old man. It took him a long time to do that, each fish counted and put into the freezer or cooler. Then he had to drain all the ice. Old man used to buy him a soda to drink while he waited. But the soda didn't last long enough and he was forced to wait, wait, wait.
Once, while the old man was packing fish, he went out back to the trash barrels - the ones with the entrails. It was cold outside; he could still remember shivering, the wind whipping through his flannel shirt, pricking him on the neck. The back lot was wet and damp, reeking with stink. But something drew him to that damn barrel.
He popped open the lid, the sickening sweet smell filling up his head. It gave him a rush. He dipped his finger inside, swirled it around. The guts were still pliable but were coated with thin slivers of ice. Shaking, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the air causing goosebumps on his naked arms. With one sudden motion, he plunged his arms into the barrel and squeezed his fists, feeling the
frosted blood and guts ooze through his fingers. It felt so neat...so, you know... whatever. He kept doing it and doing it, knowing he had to stop. For one thing, his fingers were nearly frozen, the smell was making him dizzy. But he continued until the innards were nothing more than a bloody slush.
Then the old man caught him at the barrel, asked him what he was doing.
He was paralyzed with fear, couldn't answer him. How could he explain how good it felt without making himself look like a freak?
But the old man seemed to understand. All he said was wash up, we're going home.
Now the dickhead woulda never acted so cool. The dickhead woulda said something nasty and made him feel low.
WeU, fuck him 'cause he's gone with the wind and that was fine with him.
He lay on his pillow thinking about the wad of bills in his wallet, the cash stolen from the old lady's private reserve along with a bunch of her jewelry, most of it looking like junk.
But the pearl necklace looked pretty good. It might get him a few bucks if he found a decent fence.
If the fucking sun would ever come up.
Three-oh-six.
More waiting, waiting, waiting.
Him, stuck in this dump that stank of piss and pesticide, this crap hole that was nothing more than four paper walls and a floor so sticky it made him nervous to go barefoot.
Who knew what kind of shit was tossed on it?
The only ones who didn't seem to mind were the cock-
a-roaches. He played his usual game, saw how many he could squish, then stopped counting after twenty-two.
Who really wanted to squish cock-a-roaches anyway? No body to them, nothing that you could really feel. Like the fish heads, now them you could feel under foot. The only fun thing about the cock-a-roaches was squishing them in the corners, seeing the white junk pop out of their bodies.
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the outside noise seeping through the closed window. The middle of the night, and the streets below were full of honks, beeps, shouts, and drunks throwing up.
Faye Kellerman - Decker 04 - Day of Atonement Page 11
