by Bob Mayer
Kane doesn’t respond.
“Here’s another funny thing about that movie,” Trent goes on. “The guy who won the Academy Award for writing it? Didn’t write it. Two fucking commies on the blacklist wrote it. And here we are fighting commies. Is that called irony?” He indicates the room. “This is the real world, Captain Kane. We own you. Lots can happen in here. There are race riots on a regular basis. Someone gets killed, they go on the daily casualty report coming out of country. KIA. The family weeps. Things move on.” Trent takes a deep drag on the cigarette. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He holds out the pack. “Want one?”
Kane doesn’t answer.
“Concerned for your health? Thought green beanies were tough.” Trent flicks ash onto the floor and contemplates Kane. “I’m trying to help you, Captain. Help the country. Hell, even bail out Abrams, because this is going to bite him in the ass. It’s going to bite a lot of people in the ass.”
“Including the CIA,” Kane says.
Trent laughs. “Oh no. Not us. Nothing touches us. You’re the guys in here.”
Kane takes the bait. “What do you want?”
“Who was the shooter? One scapegoat and we can get Abrams to drop this mess. We’ll make it a personal thing, not double-agent bullshit for a unit doing a mission that isn’t supposed to exist. Hell, Kane, give me a name. Doesn’t even have to be the real shooter. And here’s the thing? Whoever it is won’t even serve time. A dog and pony show for Abrams, then it all goes away.”
Silence.
Trent rubs his forehead, as if forestalling a headache. “We have the helicopter pilots’ testimony. We know you got on that chopper with Ngo. We know you came back without him.”
“We made contact after insertion,” Kane says. “He was KIA and we couldn’t get to his body. We had to call in a Prairie Fire. Emergency exfiltrate.”
“Weak cover story,” Trent says. “The thing is you weren’t the only one on the chopper. We know who was. They’re in here with you. We know where you and the others got off the helicopter in Cambodia. How close to the LZ is Ngo’s body?”
“The LZ is in a country off limits to Americans,” Kane points out. “But feel free to fly over and take a look.”
“Maybe you were the shooter, Kane. I don’t give a shit. Hell, you had a Yard on the bird. Finger him. He seems to have disappeared. Who gives a fuck about the natives? Give me a name and we’ll sort this shit out and everyone can go back to the war.”
Kane is silent.
Trent shakes his head. “We only get so many choices in life, Captain. And only so much time to make those choices. This was your first chance. You blew it.” He looks at the three Nungs. “Di.”
They came at Kane with the experience of having beaten many prisoners.
Trent resumes whistling as the fists and boots strike.
Sunday Morning, 10 July 1977
VAN CORTLANDT PARK, BRONX
Kane charged up Cemetery Hill, legs churning, white leather running shoes with a red Puma stripe on the side detonating small puffs of dirt with each foot strike. The ridge was named thusly because it had been the burial ground for the Van Cortlandt family, which settled the land before 1700. The grave markers had been moved after they were vandalized in the 1960s. The adjacent golf course had its own unique set of New York City rules. A player could do a drop if their ball was against one of several derelict cars or the abandoned boat on the course. Golfers disdained the traditional foursome and went in larger packs to deter muggers.
Kane was in his own pack, a line of runners stretching up the hill. The leaders were already over the crest. He was in the midst of the New York Road Runners Sunday ‘fun run’. They’d already looped once around the Flats, gone through the Back-hills, around the Flats again, up the Cowpath and now it was over Cemetery and back to the Flats.
He reached the top and pushed on, avoiding the rocks and roots of the worn-out cross-country course in the Northwest Bronx. He’d competed on these paths in high school and returned a year ago, enjoying the run through the woods, an enclave of nature in the City. He’d reluctantly begun to participate in the Sunday runs, not for the comradeship, after all it’s the loneliness of the long-distance runner, but for the regimen. They met at the same time every Sunday morning and it provided structure.
Kane came down the backside of Cemetery running hard. A bridge straight ahead led to the Back-hills and he considered another loop, but the other runners were acknowledging the heat and cutting back this weekend. He went with the flow and turned left, sprinting downhill with the Henry Hudson Parkway to his right. Coming out of the hills, he reached the Flats, a large former parade ground for the National Guard. A cinder path cut through weed-infested grass parallel to Broadway.
With the finish in sight, Kane picked up the pace, passing other runners. He crossed the finish line, where those who’d been ahead had halted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Uncle Conner.
Kane kept going, peeled back the Velcro on the wristband and checked the second hand on Ted’s Army issue watch. He ran hard for another minute, legs pumping as fast as he could push them. When the second hand completed a revolution, he stopped. He bent over to catch his breath, lungs burning. His sweat dripped into cinder. He glanced to the right. He was fifteen feet past the small stone he’d left as a marker on the edge of the cinder path last week. He retrieved the stone and pushed it down in the grass on the side of the path for next Sunday’s run.
“What was that? Trying to show the other runners up?” Uncle Conner was panting after the walk from the finish line to catch up to him. He looked worse than usual, hung-over, face red, sweat forming dribbles on his face.
Kane was puzzled. “Why would I want to show them up?”
“You didn’t stop,” Conner noted. “Or was it you saw me and didn’t want to talk?”
“When I was in Beast Barracks,” Kane said, “my first detail squad leader always made us continue for an extra minute on every run or forced march after everyone else stopped. He called it the gut it out minute.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“He was and he wasn’t,” Kane said.
“You see the Yankee game last night?” Conner asked. “Fucking Martinez choked. They better make up for it today.”
“You betting on the games?” Kane asked.
Conner gave a bitter laugh. “A man has to have some excitement.”
“What brings you here in your Sunday best?”
Conner wore his work ‘uniform’ of cheap suit and loosened tie. His battered red Chevy Nova was illegally parked on the sidewalk off Broadway.
“Nathan called me.” Conner wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “We got to talk, Will.”
“Okay, let’s talk.”
Conner shook his head. “Not here. I need you to come with me.”
“You need me to or you’d like me to?” Kane asked. His t-shirt was sopping.
“Both,” Conner said. “Where’s your stuff?”
Kane pointed. “Back of the Jeep.”
“Let’s get it.”
“What’s going on?” Kane walked toward the Jeep, Conner at his side.
“There’s been a homicide.”
“Uncle Nathan says there are a lot of them.”
“Nathan called me to get you. He’s at the crime scene. He wants you there.”
“Who died?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
Kane put his foot on the back bumper and untied one of his running shoes, removing the key from the lace. He swung open the back gate and unlocked the footlocker, pushed up the lid and retrieved jungle fatigue pants and a dry shirt from the top tray, uncovering his pistol. He pulled the pants over the shorts. Tossed the wet shirt over the passenger seat and put on the dry one. It immediately sported dark spots from sweat. He sat on edge of the small cargo bay. Replaced the soaked socks and running shoes with dry socks and jungle boots. Put on a clean denim shirt and rolled the sleeves.
He retrieved the .45, sl
id it into the holster.
“Fuck him,” Kane said.
Conner was startled. “What?”
“He asked me to help on his task force. He thought I could give him insight into Son of Sam. I went out to the one-oh-nine yesterday. He tried messing with my head as if I was just like this fucking Son of Sam nutjob. I told him I wanted no part. I’m not going to one of his task force crime scenes. There’s nothing I can help him with.” He looked at Conner. “We agree on that, don’t we?”
Conner shook his head. “You don’t understand, Will. This isn’t Son of Sam. Why do you think I’m here? We have to go to the crime scene because Nathan told me you’re a suspect.”
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
Kane followed Conner’s car along the Henry Hudson Parkway, crossing from the Bronx to Manhattan on the bridge also named after the first European explorer of the river. They drove along the remaining West Side Highway until the roadway was blocked and they had to take the last southbound exit at 23rd. Then they negotiated the narrow streets until they arrived at Gansevoort.
Two cops sat in their patrol car in front of Vic’s, windows up, engine running, air conditioning blowing. There’d been a great hub-bub about the city buying patrol cars with air conditioning since it meant the cops would be driving around with their windows up and couldn’t hear the cries for help from civilians.
They got the air conditioning.
Across the street from the diner a single strip of yellow crime scene tape drooped between two High Line stanchions. An unmarked cop car was parked near the tape. Nathan was standing on the other side of the tape in the shadow of the rail line, arms folded.
Kane looked at Vic’s, saw Morticia staring out through the clean windows and his shoulders relaxed. Kane parked the Jeep and headed to Nathan, arriving the same time as Conner.
Nathan lifted the tape without a greeting, allowing them through. The body was covered by a tarp. Nathan stopped next to it but didn’t remove the covering.
The detective took a notebook out of his suit pocket. Despite the burgeoning heat, his tie was cinched. “Found this morning. Called in anonymously. First unit was on scene at six-forty.” He looked at Kane. “Don’t you eat breakfast every morning in the diner?”
“Not this morning. And good morning to you too.”
“Why not this morning?”
“I go to Van Cortlandt every Sunday to run,” Kane said. “I used to stop by early on Sundays to get my paper, but then Mary started calling the diner every Sunday morning, asking if I was going to mass with her and mom. It’s the only way she knew how to get hold of me so she used it. Relentlessly. So now I come here after getting back from my run. And after mass is out.”
Conner nodded. “Yeah, that’s Mary. She can be persistent. You know it wouldn’t kill you, and your mom would love it, if you went to church with her once in a while.”
Nathan ignored his brother. “What time were you at Van Cortlandt?”
“Seven.”
“Where were you before that?”
“Home.”
“Still on Jane Street?” Nathan asked.
“Yep.”
“Not far away.”
“No. Not far.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes. Who is it?” Kane finally asked. Conner had told him he didn’t know who the body was, just that Nathan had called him at home, told him to get his ass in gear, grab Kane and come here. And that it was connected to Kane.
During the drive down, as it became clear where they were going, Kane had worried possibilities. Someone from the diner? Morticia? Thao? A robbery? Just like Nathan to keep the most important piece from his own brother, and thus from him. Kane suspected Nathan had done that to get his reaction to the identification. Which pissed him off because it meant Nathan had doubt about Kane’s innocence. But Morticia was watching and the body underneath was too big to be Thao.
Then it hit him: the Kid?
Kane knelt and grabbed the edge of the tarp.
“Whoa!” Nathan said. “Hold up.”
Kane jerked it aside.
Cibosky’s remaining eye was cloudy with death. The other eye socket was a black hole with a splatter of blood spread over his face. Even with his brain turned to mush, the heart had continued pumping for a little while longer, which meant the muscle had outlived the mind. An apropos end for Cibosky.
Kane stood.
“You know him?” Nathan asked.
“You know I know him,” Kane said. “Else you wouldn’t have ruined Conner’s Sunday bringing me down here. Let’s stop playing games, Uncle Nathan.”
Nathan was out of patience. “I agree, William. Let’s stop playing games. Tell me what’s going on. We have statements from two people that you beat the crap out of this guy yesterday morning right here. It’s obvious his nose was recently broken.”
“I hit him four times,” Kane said. “Solar plexus, throat, nose and then back of the head. He was breathing, but unconscious, when I left him. He didn’t die from getting beat up.”
“No, he died from a round through the left eye,” Nathan said. “Damn good shooting.”
“Helps if someone is really close,” Kane said, earning hard looks from both cops.
“Nobody heard a shot,” Nathan said. “But a nuke could go off and no one would say they heard a thing. What’s weird is there’s no exit wound. Usually a shot like that would blow out the back of the head. Especially since it entered through the eye socket. There should be brains all over.”
“There’s no blood on the ground,” Conner interjected. “He was dumped here.”
“Really, Conner?” Nathan sarcasm was obvious. “There’re plenty of smarter places to dump a body, like a couple blocks west in the Hudson.” He glanced at Kane. “What do you think?”
“He was part of Cappucci’s crew. A mob hit.”
“Why would the body be where you beat him up yesterday?” Nathan asked.
“No idea.” Kane was staring at the wound. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
“I’ve got to open this crime scene to Manhattan South,” Nathan said. “I was only able to grab the spot and keep it clear this long using my pull from the Task Force. McDonald is going to rip me a new one when he finds out I abused my authority for a family matter. I’ve put my neck on the chopping block here for you, William.”
“You didn’t need to,” Kane said. “I didn’t kill him.”
Nathan and Conner exchanged a glance.
“You have no alibi,” Nathan said. “You beat him up yesterday. Looks like he was killed by a pro. You’re a pro.”
“I’m not a ‘pro’,” Kane said with some heat. “I’m a guy who does leg work for a law firm.”
“You were a Green Beret,” Nathan said.
“Past tense. Years ago.”
“You say you didn’t kill him,” Nathan said, “and Conner and I believe you, but things aren’t looking good.”
Kane faced Nathan. “Do you believe me?”
Nathan met the stare. “Yeah, I do. I think you’re capable of killing, in fact, you told me yesterday that you’ve killed people, but that was war, right? And if you say you didn’t, you didn’t. I believe you.”
Conner was nervously watching the two of them. “I might not be a detective, Nathan, but even I can see an obvious set up. It’s over the top.”
Nathan broke his stare with Kane. “Yeah. It is too much. Why did you beat him up, William?”
Kane gave his uncle a brief summary of the first confrontation at the diner and then the second.
“It’s a good news, bad news situation,” Nathan said when Kane was done. “The good news is the guy was mobbed up so it can be written up as an internal mob hit and that isn’t a high priority unless the papers jump on it, but they only do that for the big names. The bad news is there’s enough connecting you to Cibosky to cause the detective who gets the case to hesitate writing it off so easily. Depends who it is.”
“Cibosky might h
ave been waiting here for me,” Kane said. “To pick up from where I left things yesterday or on orders from Alfonso Delgado. Someone came along and killed him.”
“It’s a possibility,” Conner offered.
“Except he wasn’t killed here as you noticed, Conner,” Nathan said with a tinge of irritation.
“Can I get some breakfast now?” Kane asked.
Nathan looked at him as if he were crazy. Conner was shaking his head.
Another unmarked police car rolled up. The two cops who’d been half-asleep in the patrol car leapt out, putting their caps on and scrambling over to ‘guard’ the crime scene. A black man of average height but exceptionally broad shoulders and girth exited the car. He wasn’t fat, he was a solid wall. His suit was one step up from Nathan’s and out of Conner’s league, gray with a white shirt buttoned to the top and dark red tie; tailor-made for his build. He shrugged on his jacket. He strolled across the street, looking all about. His hair was cut high and tight, military fashion. As he walked by, he glanced at Conner’s Nova, Kane’s Jeep, then Nathan’s unmarked.
“Fuck,” Conner whispered. “It’s Strong.”
“I can deal with him,” Nathan said. “You don’t say a word, Conner.”
Strong stopped on the other side of yellow tape. His lips moved but they couldn’t hear anything.
“He talking to himself?” Conner asked.
“Looks like it,” Nathan said. He spoke to Kane. “He’s an odd duck but don’t underestimate him.”
One of the patrolmen hurried over and raised the tape for Strong.
“Nathan Riley,” Strong said as he arrived. “It’s a long way from the Bronx for your brother.”
“Omar Strong,” Nathan said. He extended his hand. “Been a while.”
Strong shook it, but studiously ignored Conner, who did not offer his hand.
“Who is this?” Strong indicated Kane.
“My nephew,” Nathan said. “William Kane.”
Kane put his hand out. Strong did not reciprocate. “Why is he in my crime scene?” he asked. “Of more import, why are the Riley brothers standing in a Manhattan South crime scene?”
