Maus climbed to his feet, shaking with the aftereffects of terror. Whatever it was, the incipient riot, was over. People stood on the street in small clutches, talking, and every doorway and window was thick with watchers. Booth was sitting in the unmarked car, shaking, holding his face, which had been cut by flying brick. Dugman was in the front, talking quietly into the radio, telling the dispatchers that no help was needed.
"What the fuck was that all about?" asked Maus.
Jeffers answered, "Ask Tecumseh, here. I think your friends don't like you anymore, Tecumseh."
Maus said, "Son-of-a-bitch! Needless to say, the shooter skipped."
Jeffers nodded and pointed across the street. "He shot from the first-floor window of that vacant building. The tin over the window's bent back. He took four shots and he stopped when I started shooting."
"Any chance…?"
"No way. He coulda gone out the back or up the roof. He coulda just walked out on the street and lost himself."
"How about that car that took off in a hurry? You think he was on board?"
Jeffers exchanged a look with Dugman, who put down his microphone and turned his attention to Tecumseh Booth.
"You know who it was, don't you?"
Booth looked at him mutely. Dugman reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack and matches, which he handed to Booth. The man lit one up and drew deeply on it. Dugman waited a minute or so and then repeated his question. Outside, the life of the street resumed as if nothing had happened.
Booth said, "Yeah, I guess."
"It was a cop, wasn't it?" asked Dugman.
"Yeah. He done the shooting. I jus drove, man. That's all I know."
"You gonna give us a name?"
"If I do, what do I get out of it?"
"If you don't, we'll be glad to put you back to your momma's house and wait for the man to come again. I bet next time he won't be shooting from cross the street. Figure the range be around two inches next time."
For the next few seconds Booth's face showed clearly the frantic working of his brain. At last he said, "OK, I'll tell you, but you gotta look out for me."
"Who?" Dugman asked.
Booth said, "It's you-all's boss. It's Fulton." It had hurt worse than she had imagined, worse than the worst kind of cramps. She lay there silently, tears of rage and pain soaking into the panty hose wrapped around her head. He was arranging his clothes and pacing about the bedroom, not talking now. After a while she said, "Can I get up now?"
He didn't answer. He was thinking. He shouldn't have answered that call, but he couldn't resist, talking to the schmuck on the phone when he was looking up his girlfriend's cunt. There was a catch, though. Boyfriend could identify his voice; the girl knew his face. It was corroboration. Not good.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice thin and high.
He was wrapping the bedspread around her, tucking it in tightly on both sides, until she was like a mummy with its head wreathed in Tan Natural nylon.
"Please, let me…" she said. He straddled her legs and held the knife over his head with both hands and drove it down into her with all his force. "Wha-a-a-at!" cried Maus. "Lieutenant Fulton? Fuck you, scumbag! Try again!"
Maus turned his incredulous look toward Jeffers and Dugman, seeking support as to the absurdity of this statement, but the two other cops wore expressions of blank gravity.
"Hey, guys? You don't believe this horseshit, do you? Fulton?"
"Maus," said Jeffers sadly, "that car. Blue Trans Am with whitewalls. It was the Loo's car. And he was in it." The rapist checked himself carefully in the full-length bedroom mirror. There was no blood on him at all, except on his hands, where he had gripped the knife. He looked at the shape on the bed. He couldn't remember stabbing her that many times. He must have lost track of time. Time! He checked his watch. Only eight minutes had passed since the phone call.
He went into the kitchen and rinsed his hands and the knife and put the knife away in his jacket pocket. He brought the beer can and the glass he had used back to the kitchen, wiped both of them off, rinsed and dried the glass and tossed the can in the trash. Then he wiped the tap handle off.
Twelve minutes. Another wipe on the stereo where he had touched it. He walked toward the door. He felt good, as usual, except that his underwear was wet and sticky. He had experienced another, more intense orgasm as he was taking care of the girl. Two for the price of one, he thought, and then had an even more amusing notion: the police would think it was a nut case, all that stabbing. It was a different pattern. No one would ever associate it with him. He was not, after all, a nut. The rapist opened the door, his hand wrapped in a handkerchief, and let himself out. The three detectives and their guest drove south through the increasingly noisy evening. Each of the cops was chewing over Booth's revelation in private. Maus broke the silence.
"It still don't figure," he said. "Why are we taking this mutt's word for it?"
"It ain't just his word," replied Dugman from the rear seat.
"What, then? What! Rumors? Street bullshit?"
"It adds up. The street know something's goin down. Here, I'll show you. Maus, see that line of cars waiting to buy dope? Get in line. Mack, grab us one of them skells."
"Which one?"
"Any damn one. We doin a scientific sample."
Maus pulled the car over to where a dozen or so men were crying their wares. A thin brown man in a lavender T-shirt and a Mets baseball cap came up to the passenger window and put his hands on the sill, saying, "What you want? I got it all an' the price is right. I got weed, pills, smack, skag, coke…"
Striking like a cobra, Mack grabbed the man by an upper arm and jerked him through the window. Maus hit the gas and they roared off down the street.
Mack flipped the man around so that his head and shoulders were resting on his own lap, while the pusher's legs were flapping out the window. His massive forearm rested gently against the pusher's throat.
"Wha', wha'… wha' the fuck goin on! Leggo me!" the pusher began. Mack increased the weight of his arm and the cries choked off.
"Listen up, my man," said Mack softly. "We just want to know one thing. Where you getting your stuff. Not the mutt you get it from, the big slick. Who's the Barnes Man?" He raised his arm a hair.
"Dunno what you talkin about, man. What stuff?"
Mack dropped his arm again. When he raised it, the pusher gagged and coughed for a long time. Mack repeated the question and this time the pusher croaked, "Choo-choo."
"Choo-choo Willis, huh?" said Mack. "OK, who else still in business?"
"Blade still movin it. Some Jamaicans. Some spies. Willis been doin good since they aced all those guys."
"What's out on the street about who's doin the hits?"
The man's face clouded, and he hesitated. From the rear seat Dugman said, "Don't worry, it ain't us. Just tell what you heard."
The man coughed hard and then said, "I heard it was cops."
"That's what we heard too," said Dugman. "You hear any names?"
The man shook his head vigorously. "No, I didn't hear nothin else. It just street jive anyway, you know?"
"The name Fulton mean anything to you? Clay Fulton?"
The man screwed up his features, showing thought superimposed on terror. "Yeah. Couple of days ago, my man Socks say somepin about some Fulton. Like he was connected, wired. Big dudes want to know anybody saw him aroun'. Some shit like that."
Mack looked back at Dugman, who nodded. Mack said, "Pull over," and when Maus did so, he flung the pusher out the window like a piece of trash.
Half an hour later Booth and the three detectives were sitting in a luncheonette on St. Nicholas Avenue having coffee and arguing about what, if anything, to do.
"I say, confront the man," said Maus. "We go up there, we say we saw you when somebody was trying to ace Tecumseh here, the word on the street is you're dirty, so what the fuck, Loo? That's the right thing to do."
Dugman shook his head. "Y
eah, it would be, if Fulton was playing straight with us. But he ain't. Which means he thinks he's covered some way. So what's he gonna say? Either yes, I'm bent, and what the fuck you gonna do about it. Or no, and fuck you for accusing me. Either way we're fucked in the ass. But…"
"But what, Art?" asked Jeffers.
"Like I said before, there's somethin deep goin on here. We ain't got near all the story, and this old nigger ain't about to go jumpin into somethin deep when he don't know the whole story."
"So what do we do?" asked Maus, a note of tension straining his voice. "We can't just go on working for the man, pretending everything's cool. Maybe you all can, but I'm not made for this happy horseshit. I got to know who I can trust, you know? OK, the Loo is bent-fuck me for a chump, I thought he was a class act. But now, I'll tell you right now, I'm gonna transfer out of here. I'm no fuckin virgin-plenty of guys on the take are standup cops. But not pulling jobs, killing people, even if they are scumbags. How can you trust a guy like that, if it's true?"
"Play along, Maus," said Jeffers. "Game ain't over yet."
"Yeah, but we got no cards," replied Maus glumly.
At this remark, a smile, and a not very pleasant one, broke out on Dugman's face. "Uh-uh, you wrong there, Maus. We got us the biggest card in the deck. We got us the ace." And he looked at Tecumseh Booth. The others did too. Booth shifted nervously in his seat.
"What you gonna do?" asked Booth.
"That is the question," said Dugman reflectively. "What indeedy?" Here he paused and lit a long Macanudo cigar, and watched the sweet smoke rise to the tin ceiling above. "What we require," he said, "is, one, a place to stash our hole card. Mack, my thinking is it might be a good time for you to take a week off, take your cousin Tecumseh fishing over in Jersey. Tecumseh probably don't get in as much fishing as he'd like, driving hit men around all hours.
"Two, we need a connection, a pipe to the outside. This too big for just the three of us."
"You don't mean the snakes?" said Maus, shocked.
Dugman wrinkled his nose in contempt at this reference to the department's Bureau of Internal Affairs. "Shit, no! I meant somebody with some clout, but not under Fulton. What about that guy you were in court with when they sprung Tecumseh, the task-force guy."
"Manning?"
"Yeah," said Dugman, "Manning could be the one."
NINE
"So what do you think?" Karp asked. "Do you like the boyfriend?"
Guma wriggled in his chair and chewed thoughtfully on the stump of a dead black cigar. "Not particularly," he said. "The cops, of course, love the boyfriend."
"They always do," Karp agreed. "It's convenient and it's usually right. Why don't you like him?"
"Coupla things. One, the guy calls 911 from the girl's apartment, and when the cops get there, the body's still warm. So either he did it, or whoever really did do it must've practically passed him in the goddamn hallway going out.
"So if there's not another guy, we have to believe that this white-bread insurance exec with no priors and no history of violence shows up for a regular date with his sweetie, rapes her, wraps her up like a mummy, and stabs her thirty-nine times."
"It's happened," Karp observed,
"Everything's happened, Butch. Ponies have come in first at forty to one, but that's not the way you bet. Oh, another thing: the boyfriend, what's-his-name, Allman, he claims that he called the girl before he came over and that a man answered the phone. The man said he was a TV repairman, which Allman thought was strange, because he had just helped the Wagner girl pick out a new RCA last week. The man said Wagner was in the shower, which Allman also thought was weird because he was only fifteen, twenty minutes away, and they had tickets to a show, and if she was just taking a shower, she wouldn't be ready to go. So he hauled ass over there and found her dead."
"Do you believe him?"
"Mmm, I sort of do. There was no sign of forced entry; the girl let the killer in. According to Allman, she occasionally dated other men. He knew about it; didn't like it, but he could handle it, he says. Not a jealous type, he says."
"Any hard evidence?"
"A little, but also strange. They searched the garbage and found a couple of cans on top of the bag. One Diet Pepsi with her prints on it and a can of Bud with no prints at all-wiped clean, as a matter of fact. Tends to confirm the boyfriend, no?"
"Could be," said Karp distantly. Something was tugging at the edge of his mind, but it wasn't a murder case. After a bit, he asked, "So where are we taking this? Since you don't like the boyfriend."
"Look at the patterns, round up the usual weirdos."
"You're thinking weirdo?"
"I'm looking at thirty-nine stab wounds, a rape, and Mr. Neat, Mr. Cool talking on the phone when he's raping the girlfriend. Cleaning up too-a supercareful son-of-a-bitch. We got a sociopath for starters. Maybe he did it before. I wouldn't want to take your money if you're betting he won't do it again. I hope… you know…"
"Yeah, that we can get him before," said Karp. It tugged at his mind again, a similar case, a similar conversation. But there were so many cases and conversations.
The phone rang, and the train of thought was gone. With an apologetic glance at Guma, Karp snatched it up and said, "I'm in a meeting, Connie."
"I know that," said Trask. "But it's a Detective Manning and he says it's urgent."
Karp placed his hand over the mouthpiece. "Goom, was that it? I got to take this call."
Guma stood up. "Yeah, you got the whole story. I'll be in touch, especially if we get another one." JoAnne Caputo had been calling Marlene about once a week to see how things were going. Marlene began to dread the calls. In fact, nothing was going on, and she was going to have to tell Caputo that face-to-face, because the woman had insisted on coming in this afternoon with what she claimed was a new insight into the rape-victim data, and Marlene hadn't the heart to turn her down.
Karp had said he would talk to the cops about her pattern rapist. She didn't know whether he had or not, and was not inclined to nag him about it, because of the business about nepotism, and the silly tantrum she had thrown.
On the other hand, he was supposed to check the severance thing out too. She looked at her watch and saw that she had fifteen minutes before Caputo's appointment. Enough time to see Karp, find out about the bureaucratic bullshit, and maybe put a zinger in about the rape business.
"He's on the phone," Connie Trask called as Marlene breezed by her desk. Marlene ignored the warning, as she usually did, and stuck her head in the door. Her bright smile froze when she saw Karp's face, which was the sort worn when you get the call that your whole family has been wiped out in a head-on. He saw her, and shook his head, and made a little shooing out motion with his hand.
Marlene shooed, and closed the door hard enough to rattle the glass. Everyone in the office, all the secretaries, clerks, and hangers-out, looked up. Marlene felt a flush move over her face. She stomped over to the battered office couch and pretended to read a six-month-old copy of Government Executive.
After five minutes or so, Connie Trask cleared her throat meaningfully and nodded toward the bureau chief's office. Marlene walked with frosty dignity across the office and through the door.
Karp still had that look. Marlene sat down and lit a cigarette. "Who was that, your girlfriend?" she asked nastily. "Is she pregnant?"
Karp rubbed his face. "Marlene, please. I don't need this."
"What, I can't listen to your secret phone calls?"
Karp started to say something, stopped, and merely shook his head.
"It was that cover-up thing?"
Karp nodded.
They were silent for a few moments. In Marlene, feelings of sympathy fought with her suspicions that if she were one of the boys Karp would have confided in her. At last she said, with false brightness, "Well, on a lighter note, what's happening with this nepotism crap? Did you fix it?"
"I did not fix it, Marlene. It can't be fixed. There's a loophole that all
ows you to extend the time allowed so you can close out current cases-for the good of the office, as they put it. But after that you're out."
"Bloom said that?"
"I didn't go to Bloom, Marlene. I checked the regs and called a guy I know in the AG's office in Albany. No hope."
"With all the stuff you've got on Bloom…?"
"You're not listening, babe. I got stuff on Bloom because he broke the law, and he knows I know it, and if he tries to break the law again, I might use it. But I'm not going blackmail him into breaking the law on my behalf. Or yours."
"No, but you're doing some kind of great coverup for one of your asshole buddies. That's OK!"
Karp's jaw tightened and he leaned toward her across the desk. "You're being a prick, Marlene. Now, cut it the fuck out!"
Marlene shot to her feet. "I'm being a prick? Me?" she shouted, and she was working her mouth around some particularly vicious thing to say when the situation suddenly became too much for her to bear. She fell back into her chair with tears starting. I will not cry, she told herself sternly, and by dint of some strenuous lip-biting and facial contortions she was able to compose herself.
"You're right. I'm sorry," she said flatly. "What about the cops? On the rape thing."
"Yeah, I talked to Dworkin this morning."
"Dworkin? Come on, Butch, Jerry Dworkin? The guy's a broom. He hasn't had an idea since 1953."
Karp sighed. "No, he's not a rocket scientist, but he is the D.A. squad chief and he's the guy I have to work with."
"And what did he say?"
"He said, 'Great, but what am I supposed to do with it?' Or words to that effect. What he meant was, if they catch a guy wrapping panty hose around a rape victim, your stuff helps to make a better case. They could bring the other women in and get an ID on the guy. But until then…"
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