"The call came in to our hospital," Storm interrupted. "We ran over there, to make sure…?"
"Where's Luke?"
Lily ignored my question. "The paramedics said the child hadn't choked on anything…marks on his throat, like he'd been strangled. Luke said he was watching the TV, didn't see anything. He was just watching the cartoons."
"You think the same people…?"
"Only a ghost could've gotten into that room, Burke. They're on the ninth floor."
"There's fire escapes. Balconies. There's always a way in. I know a guy went up twelve stories with a ladder he made out of dental floss. Who knew he was there?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. Wolfe wants Luke."
"What d'you mean, she wants him? The kid can't be ten years old."
"Nine," Lily said. "If his birth certificate is the truth."
"Where is he now?"
Lily's eyes hard on mine. "Safe," she said.
"He's with us," Mac said. "At the temple." She meant the top floor of one of Mama's warehouses. Where she lived with Max.
"And you think Wolfe's crazy?"
"Not crazy," Storm put in. "Just wrong.
I turned to face Immaculata. "So you left him alone with Flower?"
Her eyes dropped. Wouldn't meet mine.
"You don't think Wolfe's wrong," I said to Lily, voice gentle and flat. If anyone was nuts, it was this crew.
"Luke needs to be in a hospital," Lily said, not giving an inch.
"We don't have joints for criminally insane babies."
"I know."
"What do you all want?"
Storm tapped her fingers on the counter, looking at her sisters, waiting. They'd talked this over before they came. "We want you to negotiate. With Wolfe."
"Negotiate what?"
"For some time. We need time. If Wolfe takes him now, she's going to charge him."
"He's too young to be charged with a crime."
"No, he's not, Burke. Wolfe says anyone over seven can be charged."
"Yeah, as a juvenile delinquent, or something. But they can't…"
I stopped talking as the ugly fear banged on the door of my consciousness. I was younger than Luke when they locked me up for the first time. That's what they did to ungrateful orphans who ran away from beatings. And pitch–black closets. And basements that smelled of human rot.
"You talked to him…?"
"He doesn't know anything," Lily said. "He'd pass a lie detector."
"You know what he is," I said, daring her to deny it.
"Yes, we know. But we don't know why. He wasn't born like this."
"So you want to make a deal. For treatment or something."
"That's a job for a lawyer. We can get him a lawyer. We have to know why. That's for you."
"I'm not a psychiatrist."
"We know what you are."
I started thinking like what I was. "Did the foster parents see you take the kid out of there?"
"I was there first," Storm said. "I called Lily. She came over with some more people. We talked to the foster parents while the others took Luke out. They didn't see a thing. Don't know where he is."
"Wolfe…?"
"Doesn't believe it for a second," Lily said. "She said she's got the kid on the books as missing. APB running for him. Said if he doesn't turn up by tomorrow, she'll get a search warrant. For SAFE. For Storm's house. For wherever."
"It's like that, huh?"
"Just like that."
I lit a cigarette, buying time. The woman warriors watched me, waiting. "Remember that time Wolfe had this case…girl about twenty–five…she'd been molested when she was eleven, long time ago? So she charged the guy, even though the statute of limitations was long gone? Remember, Lily? You testified that the girl had been in a psychiatric coma…couldn't even remember what had happened to her until she'd been in therapy for something else."
Lily nodded, waiting for the punch line.
"It went all the way up to the appellate courts, but they let the indictment stand. Said this freak, it was no different than if he hit her in the head with a tire iron and she just woke up years later. The girl couldn't remember because of something he did, so he wasn't off the hook."
"I remember. We all do. It changed the law."
"Yeah. Well, Wolfe likes that kind of stuff. Making people pay."
We sealed the bargain without another word.
52
I pulled the Plymouth into the warehouse. It looked deserted, like always. Max closed the garage doors behind us. Metal stairs to the next floor, narrow landing. Max's temple to the right, living quarters to the left.
"I don't think you really understand…." Luke's voice.
He was sitting in a straight chair, facing the door. Talking to a young Chinese. Flower crawled around on the floor, gurgling happily.
The young Chinese stood up as we entered, bowing to Max. He was wearing a baggy bright–white T–shirt that came to mid–thigh over black parachute pants, billowing wide at the knees and tied at the ankles around white leather high–tops. His glossy black hair was sleeked straight back, glistening under the gel.
Max pointed two fingers straight down, moved them apart, drawing a circle as they met again.
The young man nodded. Bowed to Immaculata and left, ignoring me.
I didn't know his name but I knew his game. The loose T–shirt covered a pistol, the soft shoes wouldn't make a sound. And he'd have people all around the building.
"Hello, Burke," the boy said.
"Hello, Luke."
"Am I going to live here?"
"For a while, okay?"
"Okay."
53
The basement is full of tunnels. We stepped through, under the building next door, the one occupied by a team of Chinese architects. I hooked the alligator clips to the telephone junction box, connected the field phone. Listened for a minute: it was after hours, but Orientals aren't clock–watchers.
All clear. I dialed Wolfe's private line. No answer. Then I tried her home number. The one Lily had given me. It was picked up on the third ring.
"Hello." Man's voice, neutral.
"Could I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?"
"Who is this?" The voice shifting down a gear, harder.
"A friend."
"You got a name, friend?"
"Ms. Wolfe will recognize my voice. I'm working on something for her."
"Hold on."
Muffled noise in the background. A dog yapped.
"This is Wolfe."
"It's me," I said, soft–voiced, going on quickly before she could say my name. 'I apologize for calling you at home—it's kind of an emergency. Is this phone okay?"
"My housekeeper is especially good at sweeping. What do you want?"
"To talk to you. Face to face. About what you're looking for."
Sound of Wolfe muffling the phone, murmurs of talk.
"Tell me where you are—I'll come to you."
"That wouldn't work. I'll meet you. Wherever you say."
"When?"
"Now. As long as it takes me to get there—I'm in Westchester, just north of the city."
"You know where I live?"
"No."
More muffled conversation at her end.
"I'll give you an address. There's no number on the door. Just tap on it. Lightly. And don't go around to the side of the house…the dog's there."
"Okay."
"You're coming alone?"
"Yes."
"I'll be waiting," she said. And gave me the directions.
54
The Plymouth's exhaust bubbled softly as I made the turn into Forest Hills Gardens, the ritziest section of Queens, not far from the courthouse. I entered the neighborhood from Queens Boulevard after I exited the Grand Central. As if I'd come over the Whitestone Bridge from Westchester, in case she had people watching.
Beautiful homes, set way back from the narrow, winding streets. Brick, stone, exotic wood…they looked like
little castles. I wondered how Wolfe could crack this kind of real estate on her DA's salary—maybe she had a rich husband.
The house was the whole corner lot of the street, surrounded by a man's–height stone wall, electronic sensors set at irregular intervals along the top. The gate to the driveway was standing open. Three–car garage at the end, just around a curve. Its door was closed, the driveway clogged with cars, mostly econoboxes except for Rocco's Firebird and a red Buick Reatta two–seater. Wolfe's Audi was nowhere in sight.
I closed the Plymouth's door just as spotlights snapped to attention all around the house. A patch of darkness to the side. Behind a flat–black grid, a dog's eyes blazed.
I tapped on the front door, like I'd been told, watching my reflection in the one–way bronze–glass panel. Lola opened the door, wearing an electric–blue shantung silk dress, party makeup still on her face.
"Come on," she said, walking away so I'd follow, "she's out back." Hardwood floors, polished. Almost no furnishings. The living room had a vaguely Japanese tone to it, but I didn't get a chance to stop and look, feeling the presence of someone behind me.
The backyard was huge. A giant cherry tree stood in one corner, its branches blocking the sky. A hammock in the open space, brick barbecue, a padded weight lifter's bench. Bird feeders were suspended from the tree limbs that ran parallel to the ground.
I walked onto the fieldstone patio. Wolfe was seated at a butcher–block table, an overflowing ashtray at her elbow. The woman who'd been behind me walked around to my side, guiding me to the table without touching me.
"This is Deidra," Wolfe said. A big woman, more curvy than hefty, with short–cropped dark hair and a winsome face. Black Irish, Italian, Jewish—couldn't tell, it was all there. "She works with us too. You've met the others." Waving her hand around, eyes not leaving my face.
I sat down. A thick shadow moved in against Wolfe's hip. "Sit, Bruiser," she said, sweetness in her voice.
"Beautiful place you have here," I said, lighting a smoke, waiting for the others to step back, give us room to talk privately.
"I like it," she said, even–voiced. "Nice days, I can walk to work."
"You like birds?" I asked, looking around.
"They're really Bruiser's birds. He was raised with them. In the backyard, when he was just a tiny puppy, he used to lie in the sun. And the birds would come. They got used to him. I even have a picture somewhere of a sparrow perched on Bruiser's head. When a cat comes into the yard, his birds scream for him. And out he comes."
"That must be a pain in the neck."
"No, he gets in and out by himself. Dog door."
"If it's big enough for him, it's big enough for a person."
"No, it really isn't. We tried. Even Lola couldn't get through it."
The tall woman flashed a smile in the darkness.
"So this is a cat–free zone?"
"It sure is. One day I came out after this awful racket and there was this Siamese lying in the yard. In two pieces. The owner was my neighbor, claims he's a real animal lover. He came over screaming and yelling, said the cat was just following its natural instincts, hunting birds."
"What'd you tell him?"
"Bruiser was just following his natural instincts too. Protecting his territory. And my Bruiser doesn't invade other people's property like his cat."
"What'd he do?"
"Sued me in Small Claims Court." Wolfe chuckled. "The judge told him his cat was a trespasser and Bruiser had used self–help."
"Friend of yours?"
"No judge is a friend of mine," a chill lacing her speech, making sure I got it.
"Mine either."
"I know. We have a mated pair of cardinals living here. Blue jays, robins, doves. Even a stupid woodpecker who tries the cherry tree every now and then."
"Nice and peaceful."
"Yes."
She was going to wait. And I didn't know what she was waiting for. "I wanted to talk to you," I said.
"Talk."
"Alone."
"Not a chance, Mr. Burke. I'm not ungrateful for occasional help you've provided to City–Wide, but I'm not playing myself out of position."
"Neither am I. What if…just for the sake of argument…I wanted to discuss something with you…something that maybe I wouldn't want to admit I said if it ever went near a courthouse? I could say it to you, and then it's your word against mine. But if I said it to everyone, then I'm up against it."
"You don't trust me?" Hint of a smile.
"Sure, I trust you. It's how much that I'm wrestling with."
Wolfe lit another cigarette, patting her dog. At home, at peace. The redhead, Amanda, walked over, her hands full of papers like she was still in the office. Rocco and Floyd were doing something around the barbecue, arguing, it sounded like.
"Take your time," Wolfe said.
Fuck it. "I'm here to negotiate," I told her.
"Negotiate what?"
"Let's say…hypothetically…that you were looking for a missing kid. Maybe you thought you knew where the kid was, okay? Maybe you thought he was with friends. Your friends."
Wolfe's face was upturned, fingers absently stroking her cheek. A fire blazed to one side: Rocco finally got the barbecue going. The flames caught the white wings in Wolfe's dark hair. She didn't say anything, waiting.
"Your true friends," I told her. "Sometimes, even the closest of friends, even brothers and sisters, they can disagree. Before, you told me to take my time. That's easy to say, hard to do. Time. Hard to do. The State took my time from me. More than once. You know about that. It did me some good. Not the kind of good they meant. It scared me, but not so bad that I'd kiss ass to stay out. I had time—the time they made for me. I learned some things. Things about myself. Things about the way things work. You understand what I'm telling you?"
"No."
"Yes, you do. Some things need time. This…thing…between you and your sisters, it needs time."
"How much time?" Quick, no playing around, right to the center of it. Just Wolfe now—her people nearby but distanced.
"Couple of weeks."
"No way."
"The kid is safe."
"It's not him I care about. He's a killer. I should've dropped him the first time."
"He's nine years old."
"Everyone is, once."
"Everybody that gets to be ten. He's not a kid…that's what you're thinking. And you're right. Half right, anyway. He's not a kid, he's not a man either. Something else."
Wesley. "You're still a man," I told him, listening as he described a murder–mutilation. A message to his enemies. "I'm a bomb," the monster said.
And that's the way he went out.
"How do you know?" Wolfe asked, leaning toward me.
"I know. I paid the tuition, passed the course."
She flashed a quick grin at me, throaty, husky–soft voice. "Dónde está el dinero?"
The way I answered her question years ago. When she challenged me to say something in Spanish.
"There's no money in this. It would take me too long to tell you why. Even if you think I'm on a scam, you know your sisters aren't."
"Truth, justice, and the American way?"
"Truth, justice, and revenge."
"You said enough to get locked up already, pal." Rocco. Leaning forward, intruding.
Wolfe gave him a look. Patted her dog some more.
"You ever notice Bruiser's eyes?" I asked her. "They look straight ahead. The birds he guards, they look out each side. You know why?"
"Bruiser's a predator. The birds are prey."
"Not his prey, though."
She dragged deep on her cigarette. "Two weeks," she said. "Then he gets brought in."
I nodded.
"That's your word?" she asked.
I bowed confirmation.
55
I crossed over the Kosciuszko Bridge, heading south for Brooklyn. Slag yards underneath to my right, yawning black, spot–fires spurting.
Suicides, they never jump off this bridge—water tells a better lie about what's waiting. Past them, way off in the distance, Manhattan neon told its own lies.
Two weeks.
Luke and Burke. Lurk.
I'd told Wolfe I knew. Didn't tell her how I'd learned.
1971. Lowell, Massachusetts, a struggling mill town. Sitting in a mostly empty downtown parking lot in the front seat of a dull brown Ford, stolen a couple of hours earlier. License plates looked good—they were two halves of two different plates, welded together with the seam at the back. Beer cans on the dashboard, radio turned down low. Two guys taking a break from their construction job. Me and Whitey, waiting. Watching.
Every Friday, a young woman walked past that parking lot. It was a joy to watch her. Pretty–proud, long brown hair bouncing on her shoulders, matching the swing in her hips. Not a traffic–stopper, but a juicy fine thing just the same.
We'd been watching her every Friday for a month. Watching her carry a leather bag over one shoulder. Her outfit changed each time, but the leather bag stayed the same.
She'd walk back the same way. Past us. With the leather bag heavier then. Her boss made the payroll in cash every Friday afternoon. The brunette made the bank run. Flouncing along, walking the way girls walk, one hand swinging with her rhythm, the other patting the bag at her hip. Taking her time, enjoying the sunshine and the stares.
We'd checked the traffic patterns, the escape routes. Had a garage all rented about a half mile away. One quick swoop and we'd make our own withdrawal. Hole up, listening to the sirens. Nighttime, we'd go down the back stairs, separate at the bus station.
Saturday, Whitey would be in Boston. I'd be in Chicago.
The brunette had on an egg–yolk–yellow dress that stopped at mid–thigh.
"Beautiful, huh?" Whitey whispered. He didn't mean the girl.
The radio said something about Attica. I turned it up. Riot at the prison, guards taken hostage, the whole joint out of control. State troopers had the place surrounded.
Whitey had done time before I was born. He cupped a cigarette, hiding the flame out of habit. Spoke softly out of the side of his mouth.
Sacrifice Page 9
