by Bob Mayer
“When I saw it come across,” Nathan said, “I thought it might be related to the task force.”
Strong looked at Cibosky. “How stupid do you think I am? That isn’t a young girl with long brunette hair. That isn’t a .44 slug in the head. And it’s Sunday morning. How did you see it ‘come across’?”
“We’re working seven days a week on the Task Force,” Nathan said. “Everyone’s been authorized overtime.”
“That explains why no one else can get any,” Strong said. “Why’d you grab this?”
Nathan said nothing.
“All right.” Strong looked at Kane. “It must have something to do with this fellow.”
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” Nathan said, indicating the diner, “and I’ll fill you in.”
“You’re going to have to buy me breakfast,” Strong said. “And it better be a good story.” He continued to ignore Conner. “Can I trust your brother to maintain the integrity of the crime scene, Nathan?”
Conner took a step, face redder than normal, but Nathan chopped his hand and Conner heeled.
The two detectives walked across the street, leaving Kane alone with Conner.
“You guys don’t seem happy to see Strong,” Kane said.
“He’s an all right detective,” Conner grudgingly allowed, watching them. “We had a run in some years back.”
“Great,” Kane said.
“Hey!” Conner turned on him. “Nathan has put his shit on the line here. If he can’t talk Strong out of calling McDonald, not only will he be kicked off the task force, he could lose his shield.” Conner paused. “You really didn’t kill this guy, did you, Will?”
“Who do you guys think I am?”
Conner was looking at the diner. “Why did Nathan really want you at the Task Force?”
“To pick the brain of a killer.”
“No wonder you were pissed at him.”
“I still am.”
Conner turned to him and indicated the body. “Will, this is on you. Nathan is doing you a solid. Don’t be a dick. You’ve gotten us both involved in your shit.”
“Right.”
“Right’?” Conner repeated. “They need to catch Son of Sam. Fast. Or more girls are going to get shot. They need Nathan on the task force. When Nathan gets on a case, he’s like a bulldog, but he’s got sharp elbows.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Conner explained, “he doesn’t think about, or particularly care, who he has to shove through to solve the case. Or who he has to knock down. In this case you felt those sharp elbows. I’ve felt them in the past too. You know, of course, that his offer to me yesterday at the Club was bullshit, right?”
Kane couldn’t see the two detectives through the windows. “What?”
“He would have shit if I’d said yes,” Conner said. “He knows me and he knew I’d say no. I get it now. He was playing me in front of you to play you. He’s good at what he does. Take his lead when you talk to Strong.”
“Roger that.”
Conner indicated Cibosky. “And how about staying away from the mob? Nothing good can come of it. Guys like this, they’re fucking nut-jobs.”
“Cibosky wasn’t crazy,” Kane said, “just dumb. Whoever killed him is the crazy one.”
“I’ll tell you one person who ain’t gonna be happy about this,” Conner said.
“Who?” Kane asked.
“Delgado. This guy was his right-hand man, wasn’t he?”
“I hope he’s a leftie, because Cibosky wasn’t much of a hand.”
“I heard you were in the Bronx yesterday,” Conner said.
“I’m in the Bronx every Saturday,” Kane said. “And Sunday,” he pointedly added.
“I’m going home and enjoying the rest of my day off,” Conner said as he started to walk away. “That’s if the Yankees don’t choke again in Baltimore. Fucking Reggie.” He paused and looked over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go to the fucking cemetery like a normal person, Will? He is buried in a cemetery isn’t he or do they do something different in his religion?” He was shaking his head as he got in his car and drove off.
A crime scene car pulled up and two bored techs reluctantly left the comfort of the air conditioning.
“Hey, Will!” Nathan waved from the door to the diner.
Kane crossed the street. Strong sat in Kane’s booth, in his spot, facing the door. He filled most of that side of the table. Nathan led the way and Kane sat next to his uncle across from the detective. The thick Sunday New York Times was pushed against the wall next to the condiments.
“Your uncle has briefly filled me in,” Strong said, checking his notebook, a mechanical pencil in one hand. The handwriting was precisely lettered. “I have some questions though.” Strong looked up. “Your story is that Cibosky was here twice. Once inside, the other time across the street. Friday morning, he waited by the door and was in the company of a known organized crime figure, Alfonso Delgado of the Cappucci family. You had no contact with Cibosky. Yesterday he was across the street alone, approximately where his body currently resides, and you left here to confront him without any provocation.”
“His presence was a provocation,” Kane said. “That was actually the third time I met him.” He related how Cibosky busted the Jeep headlights on Friday afternoon.
Strong made a few notes. Then he tapped the pencil for several moments. “You nervous? You keep looking over your shoulder.”
“I don’t like having my back to the door.”
Morticia floated to the table. She put a cup in front of Kane along with his glass of water with two cubes. She filled it from the pot. “Refill?” she asked Strong. He nodded and she topped him off. Same with Nathan’s cup.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Strong said.
Morticia smiled welcome and moved away. Not very far.
“How are you involved with Delgado?” Strong asked Kane.
Kane explained following the mobster Thursday night and the photos.
“Who hired you to do that?” Strong asked. “Who is this woman, whose name you studiously avoid divulging, who you felt was threatened by Cibosky’s presence across the street yesterday morning? For whom did you so gallantly sally forth to beat up a mobster?”
“Antonia Marcelle.”
Strong’s pencil stopped scratching across the page. He looked up. “Of Marcelle, van Dyck, Feinstein and Jenkins? Her father is Thomas Marcelle?”
“The last name in the firm has changed,” Kane said. “Jenkins is gone. Antonia Marcelle is now a partner.”
Strong closed the notebook. Tapped the pencil.
Kane couldn’t stop from looking over his shoulder as he heard the door open. One of the techs came in. He went to Strong, leaned over and whispered in his ear. Strong nodded. He grabbed the guy’s shoulder so he could whisper something back. The tech nodded and left.
Strong returned his attention to Kane. “Your uncle told me about you. West Point. Two tours in Vietnam. I was One-Nine Marines. 1967. You?”
“You were in the Walking Dead on the DMZ,” Kane said. There was acknowledgement in Strong’s eyes of the informal nickname for that unit. “First tour, I was 173rd Airborne in the Central Highlands in ’67 and then 5th Special Forces in ’69.”
Strong nodded. “Special Forces. Bunch of wild men. In the mountains with the natives. Did you go native?” He indicated the bracelet on Kane’s wrist.
Kane didn’t say anything.
“I heard rumors you guys were doing other things,” Strong said. “Hush-hush cross border stuff. Assassinations. Killing people up close.”
Kane remained silent.
Strong spoke. “You don’t look stupid. Are you stupid?”
“No.”
“Stupid people don’t know they’re stupid,” Strong said. “That’s the problem in the world. They think they’re as smart as everyone else. Your uncle says you boxed Golden Gloves in high school. Then you go out of your way to beat up our deceased. It’
s been written ‘Only dumb guys fight’.”
“Written where?” Kane asked. “It’s not the Bible.”
“A poet. You’ve never heard of him. But I have to agree with Detective Riley that it would be more than stupid for you to shoot this guy and dump his body across from where you eat every day. It would—“
Nathan interrupted. “The body was dumped?”
Strong turned to him. “That eye wound bled but there’s no blood around the body on the ground. Some other things. But you and I know that, Riley. Even your ignorant brother probably knows it. Don’t play up to me. Word is you’re a stand-up guy. That’s the reason we’re sitting in this booth chatting and I haven’t dialed my captain to call your boss to let loose the world of hurt that would storm upon this circus you’re presiding over.”
He shifted his attention back to Kane. “As I was saying. It would be dumb for you to drop a body across the street from where you eat. It would be dumb for you to have the bat the vic used still in your Jeep if you killed him.”
Kane looked outside. The tech lifted the bat out of the passenger well of the Jeep.
“That is the bat, correct?”
“Yeah. Forgot the taking the bat part of the story. Didn’t think it was important.”
“Details are always important,” Strong said. “They determine the truth. And you say the deceased dropped the bat because you pulled a gun on him. You’ve got a .45 on your belt. Own any others?”
A familiar dread was seeping through Kane’s body. He shifted uncomfortably on the vinyl seat.
“Do you own any other firearms?” Strong repeated. “You have the key for that locker in the back of your Jeep?”
“You have a warrant?” Kane asked.
“Hey, William,” Nathan said. “We’re trying to clear this up.”
“I need to talk to my lawyer.” He stared at Strong. “Unless you have cause to arrest me?”
“William!” Nathan pleaded.
“No, Mister Kane,” Strong said. “No cause. Yet. Mind telling me where you live?”
“Yes, I do.”
Strong leaned back in the booth. Folded his hands over the notebook. “You have some ID on you?”
“I do.”
“I can legally ask for that. And I can arrest you if you don’t show it.”
“He’s my nephew,” Nathan said.
Kane retrieved his money clip, pulled the tattered New York State driver’s license from the center and handed it over.
“What is this?” Strong demanded. The faded piece of paper was barely readable. Strong squinted at the writing. “How old is it? It’s not even the current iteration of license.”
“I got my license in 1961.”
“It’s 1977,” Strong said.
“I was in the military,” Kane said. He tried to defend his legal laziness. “According to New York state law we don’t have to renew.”
“You’re not in the military anymore,” Strong said. He tore it up and dropped it in the ashtray. “Now you can’t drive that Jeep or I’ll have you arrested. And it’s illegally parked. Thus I’m having it towed.” He pointed. “You’re carrying a firearm. Which requires a city permit. Let me see it.”
Kane slid the document out of his clip.
Strong checked it. “You know what the law says about gun permits? The city giveth and the city taketh.” He slid the license into his notepad. “Your gun, please, Mister Kane.”
Nathan looked like he was about to say something, but didn’t.
Kane felt a rushing in his head, a lightness in his arms. As if he weren’t here but watching it play out on a movie screen and he was in the audience. The script was written by someone else.
“I’m being polite,” Strong said.
Kane pulled the .45 and laid it on the table, pointing toward the wall. “There’s a round in the chamber. The trigger is twitchy if you’re not used to it.”
“Thank you,” Strong said as he picked up the gun. “Ambidextrous safety, machined slide. That’s unique. Serial number burned off. That’s unique also and not good.” He dropped the magazine, pulled the slide and ejected the bullet. It hit the table and rolled off.
Morticia caught the round before it hit the floor, maintaining the pot of coffee upright in her other hand. She held out the bullet. “Whom does this belong to?”
“I’ll take it,” Strong said.
She handed him the bullet. He tried to press it into the magazine.
“It’s full,” Kane said. “We always carried seven and one in the pipe.”
Strong put the magazine into his jacket pocket along with the permit. The gun rested in front of him. He rolled the bullet across the table to Kane, who picked it up. “Who is ‘we’? Where’d you get a sterile gun?”
“Anything else?” Kane put the bullet in his shirt pocket.
“You’re not helping yourself,” Strong said.
Morticia had not moved, observing the conversation from the edge of the booth.
“I know about helping myself,” Kane said, “and sitting here with you isn’t doing that. That I am certain about.” Kane stood up, taking the Times. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“William?” Nathan said.
Kane headed for the door. He noticed Thao standing on his crate, staring over the kitchen serving wall.
Morticia walked next to him. “You all right?” she whispered.
Kane lied. “Sure.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tell your friend who needs legal advice to talk to Toni Marcelle. She’s in the book.”
Kane exited into the stifling heat in time to see them loading Cibosky’s body into the coroner’s van. A patrolman stood next to his Jeep.
Kane walked south, toward the twin towers of the World Trade Center.
CIVIC CENTER, MANHATTAN
“There are three possibilities,” Kane said, “and two of them are bad.”
They were in Toni’s office. She wore a nondescript blouse, Calvin Klein jeans and no makeup. Her hair was a tousled mess. Despite that, her skin was smooth and glowing, without any indication of perspiration. A yellow legal pad was in front of her, covered with notes from Kane’s recital of events since the confrontation with Cibosky the previous morning. A steaming cup of freshly made coffee was next to it.
“Go on,” Toni said.
“One,” Kane said. “That my High Standard isn’t in my footlocker and was used to kill Cibosky and will turn up somewhere and match ballistics. My prints are all over that gun and magazine and shell casings. Two. That the gun was stolen, used to kill Cibosky, and is back in the locker and Strong will get a warrant and open the locker and find it and match ballistics. Three. It’s in there and wasn’t used. Number three is not likely.”
“Back up. How do you know Cibosky was killed by a .22?” Toni asked.
“I’ve seen that wound before,” Kane said. “Suppressed .22 caliber pistol, fired at close range, straight into the eyeball. Easy entry through the socket. The round splinters as it traverses flesh. Churns the brain. It’s low velocity in order to be subsonic and quiet coming out of the suppressor. That’s why there was no exit wound. It was one of the weapons of choice for a liquidation technique employed in the Phoenix Program. I’m pretty sure it’s my gun. It’s not a weapon that is widely distributed. They were specially made for the CIA.”
Toni let out a deep breath. “Jesus, Will. ‘Liquidation’ The ‘CIA’?”
“Jesus is not going to help us.”
“When you say ‘liquidation’ you mean kill, right? What the hell was this Phoenix Program?”
“Something the CIA ran. I wouldn’t write that term down.”
“The war is over,” Toni said.
“Some parts will never be over.”
They were alone on the top floor of the firm. The offices were quiet, only the hum of cool air being pushed out of the vents.
“How long will it take Strong to get a warrant for the footlocker?” Kane asked.
“You’re luc
ky it’s him,” Toni said. “He’s a straight arrow and will actually get one before he’d open it. Many detectives would have reported the lock broken and been in it already.”
“I don’t think having Strong on my case is lucky,” Kane said. “He looks like he has his act together. And he’s a veteran of the Walking Dead.”
“The what?”
“1st Battalion, 9th Marines,” Kane said. “He said 1967, which means he was on the DMZ. That battalion had the highest casualty of any Marine unit in any war, Toni. He’s seen the shit.”
“He’s a competent cop and a fast rise in the Department,” Toni said. “It’s Sunday. There’s one judge on call. I don’t think Strong will bother him on the weekend, especially with your Uncle Nathan vouching for you and given who the victim is. But just in case, I’ll ensure I get a call from the duty clerk if a warrant is pushed through today. But most likely it will be tomorrow. Hold on.” She turned her chair and picked up a phone. Had a quiet conversation. Hung up. “I’ll know the moment any warrant with your name on it is processed. Same goes if he wants to search your place.”
“So I’ve got a little time,” Kane said.
“Hopefully,” Toni said. She looked at the notepad. “How did someone get your gun, if they did?”
“Broke into the place I park the Jeep and motorcycle. I lock the High Standard in the footlocker in the back of the Jeep when I’m not carrying it.”
“You didn’t see it this morning?”
“I only used the top tray this morning for my clothes and to secure the .45 when I went for my run. The .22 is in the lower part. You remember our West Point footlockers.”
“Ted’s was shipped back to us,” Toni said. “Dad still has it in his office.” She drummed her fingernails. “Okay. You didn’t kill Cibosky. Who did?”
“Quinn,” Kane said.
“You sound certain.”
“Okay, most likely Quinn. Or someone else working for Cappucci. But my money is on Quinn.”
“Why?”
“We need to know what Cappucci is doing about the pictures,” Kane said. “Because this could be his first step against Delgado. Take out Delgado’s muscle first. It’s what I would do.”
“Don’t ever say that again.”
Kane pressed on. “Or it could simply be a lesson. Cibosky told me Quinn didn’t know that Delgado sent him to give me a message so Quinn had considered the matter settled at breakfast. Maybe Cibosky got killed for stepping out of school? Or Cappucci had Cibosky whacked to send Delgado a message.”
