Footsteps of the Hawk b-8 Page 23

  They were stalking each other— and I couldn't stay out of the middle. I was a blind leech in muddy swampwater, searching for a pulse. The bigger animals wouldn't chase me, couldn't catch me if they did. But if I didn't find that pulse, I could starve to death.

  The cellular phone in my jacket purred, making me jump. I pulled it out, my back to the river, scanning the wide street.

  "What?" I said into the mouthpiece.

  "I got it!" Hauser's voice, low volume, high energy. Whatever it was, he was pumped.

  "Are you— ?"

  "In my office," he said. Then the connection went dead.

  No way to go back to my place, drop Pansy off. I'd been out long enough for Morales to have picked up my trail. Some other cop might have spread some cash around the streets— "Call me when you see this car," like that— but Morales wouldn't do that. When he was partnered with McGowan, he let the Irishman do that kind of work. Alone, he was a blackjack kind of cop, the kind you couldn't do business with. He'd pay a whore for sex, but not for information— Morales expected that on the house.

  Scaring people isn't the best way if you need them working for you. It's okay when all you need is a piece of information— fear makes some people talk. But it's easy to overdose that kind of thing— easy to scare people so much that they freeze. McGowan knew the difference. Morales didn't. Or didn't care.

  Morales wouldn't go on the pad, wouldn't take a bribe to look the other way. But he'd shoot you in the back and lie about it with a straight face. Morales had been out too long. He was rotten with honor, as dangerous as a nerve–gas canister in a subway car— with Morales, the best you could hope for is that the body wouldn't be yours.

  I loaded Pansy into the car, headed south on West Street. I made a U–turn at Chambers, heading uptown. I cut east on Little West Twelfth, did some twists and double–backs through the Meat Market, then pulled over and waited.

  Five minutes, ten minutes. Nothing. I knew Morales could track— he'd shown me that much— but I also knew he had no patience. I put the Plymouth in gear and headed back uptown.

  I found a place to park on Eighth, in the mid–Twenties. I wouldn't leave Pansy in the car, not in this city. A guy I know in Brooklyn, he had a beautiful Rottweiler, kept it in his yard, behind a high wrought–iron fence. The dog would challenge anyone who walked by, but it couldn't get out. Some two–bit gangstah–dressed punk walked up and stood right by the fence. When the Rottie came over, the punk sprayed metallic paint right in the dog's eyes. The Rottie screamed, tearing at its eyes with its claws. The punk was still watching when the cops rolled up, the paint can in his hand, giggling.

  The cops called the Animal Control people. They tranq'ed the Rottie, but it was too late— one eye was gone, the other burned right in its socket.

  The Rottie lived, but it was blind.

  The punk went to Family Court. He told the judge he was walking by the yard one night. He couldn't see the Rottie in the blackness. The dog growled, and he jumped, scared. His homeboys laughed. "Nobody disses me like that," he said. So he came back with the can of spray paint for payback.

  The judge put him on Probation.

  When he got shot in the chest a few weeks later, the cops put it down to gangbanging. At least that's what it said on the report. They never got to interview the punk— he died in the ambulance.

  "No dogs allowed," the slug at the desk said, not even bothering to take the cigarette out of his mouth.

  "Where's it say that?" I asked, looking around for a sign. The only one I could see said NO SMOKING.

  "Building rules," the slug said.

  "I got a pass," I told him, leaning over the desk, a twenty–dollar bill in my hand.

  The slug took the money, dropped his eyes like he was reading. I took the stairs— I didn't want anybody running into Pansy on the elevator.

  Outside Hauser's office, I turned the handle to the door. It opened easily. I walked inside, Pansy slightly behind me to my left.

  "What the fuck is that?" Hauser greeted me.

  "She's a Neapolitan mastiff," I told him. "Don't worry, she's mellow."

  Hauser gave me a dubious look. I threw Pansy the hand signal— she dropped to the floor. "Stay," I told her. It was just to comfort Hauser— staying in one spot was one of Pansy's specialties.

  I sat down across from Hauser, his desk between us. I noticed four empty white Styrofoam coffee cups— Hauser had another in his hand.

  "You gonna finish that?" I asked him, tilting my chin toward about half a roll with thick butter oozing out the sides.

  "You want it?" he replied.

  "Yeah," I said.

  When he nodded, I reached over and took it, flipped it back over my shoulder without looking. I heard the click of teeth. "Jesus!" Hauser said. "She just— "

  "Pansy would catch bullets, you covered them with enough butter," I told him.

  Hauser shook his head in amazement— like all real reporters, there wasn't a whole lot that didn't interest him. All the urgency he'd shown on the phone was gone— whatever he had, he was going to showcase it, slip a little bit out at a time. I didn't push him, knew there was no point.

  "Loretta Barclay," he finally said. "That name ring a bell?"

  "The woman in Scarsdale, right? The one who got killed…with the red ribbon left in— "

  "Right," Hauser said, leaning forward. "The cops have been working on it. And it doesn't look random anymore."

  "Because…?"

  "Because she didn't exactly come from money, this woman. In fact, she's got a nice little track record of her own. How does a twenty–year sentence in Indiana strike you? She did three of it, then she went over the wall. Off the grounds, actually— she just walked away. One of the guards went with her. They found him…dead. In a motel room in Youngstown, Ohio. He had enough pills in him to drop a horse. Left a suicide note too, but the cops never bought it— it was too soon after the escape. And the woman, she just vanished."

  "When was this?" I asked him.

  "She was arrested in 1979, tried in 1980, sentenced the same year. She walked away in '83."

  "They been after her all that time?"

  "Right. The feds too. Turns out she met the guy she married in Boston. When she was dancing in one of those topless joints."

  "That's kind of open for a woman on the run," I said. "How could she— "

  "She had the works," Hauser cut in. "New face, new chest too. The cops think it had to be the same plastic surgeon. Beautiful work…no way to tell unless you had her under a magnifying glass. A lot of those strippers get implants anyway— that wouldn't make anyone suspicious. She dyed her hair, blond to brunette, let it grow real long. I saw a picture of her— a copy of the original they took when she was booked in Indiana. Believe me, her own mother wouldn't have recognized her. If it wasn't for the fingerprints, they never would have tumbled to it."

  "So they think it's somebody from her past?"

  "They think it could be. They talked to the cops here, but there's really no connect to our pattern. I mean, they were all killed, all stabbed to death…but that's all."

  "So the big break, it's just that she was— "

  "There's more," Hauser said, his voice tightening. "One of the reasons she got such a short sentence was she rolled over. She named— "

  "Short sentence?" I said. "Twenty years? What was the beef, triple homicide?"

  "Indecent liberties with a child," Hauser told me. "Forty–seven counts. Forty–seven. She was part of a ring, recruiting little girls for…movies. The oldest one was thirteen. It was a professional operation— they had a house rented near the state line. She was a dance teacher, modern dance— the kids were her students. When they popped her, she was looking at Natural Life. No question about the kids testifying like there usually is— the cops had the movies, and even an ACLU judge high on marijuana wouldn't have suppressed that evidence.

  "There were four other people, three men and a woman. She turned them all in. And they all got
forever sentences, Life Plus. She got to go to minimum security and then— "

  "They got all of them?" I interrupted.

  Hauser nodded, like he was glad I was finally with the program.

  "All but one," he said. "One of the men took off just before they came for him."

  "And the cops think he might have…?"

  "I don't know. Me, I don't see how it could be. Why would he wait a dozen years? And why would he risk his own freedom just for revenge— the FBI's looking for him too. Besides, it's not like those kind of people have any loyalty…."

  "You're right. And when they dusted…?"

  "Nothing. Only the prints that should have been there. Whoever did it, he was wearing gloves, I guess."

  "So this Barclay woman, she— "

  "Not Barclay," Hauser interrupted. "Her real name was Thomchuk. Barbara Ann Thomchuk."

  "Yeah, okay. Thomchuk. There's no way her husband could have done it? Even if he was out of town, alibi'ed to the hilt, he could have paid…"

  "He wasn't playing around on her," Hauser said. "The cops checked. And even if he was, they had a pre–nup, a solid–gold one, drawn up by a top matrimonial firm in White Plains. He could just pay her some money, walk away clean. He wasn't having business problems, didn't owe money to the sharks. He didn't have a drug habit, wasn't a boozer. And her life wasn't insured at all, only his."

  "So you think the answer's in her past?"

  "Got to be," Hauser said. "Tomorrow morning, I'll be on it. I already got plane reservations for Chicago— that's the closest airport."

  "Let me know," I said, getting up to go. "I think you're on the right track."

  When I was doing time— after I hooked up with the Prof and stopped being stupid about my life— I studied this one guy real close. The Prof told me to do that. "Keep a tight rein on your game, schoolboy. You want a clue, watch those who do." The thing about this guy, he was a skinner. A tree–jumper. Slash–and–burn rapist. And he only did kids. I studied him because he could say anything, anything at all, and it would come out like he was telling the truth.

  What really impressed me was him passing a lie–detector test. The cops came up to the prison— they wanted to question him about some missing kids. This guy, he told them he could lead them right to the kids…he said they were all snatched by the same ring of freaks…but he'd have to be out to do it. Let him out, no surveillance, and he'd call in as soon as he learned where the kids were hidden. It should have been a slam dunk NO from the cops, right? I mean, who'd take that kind of chance? But what made it hard for them was the way this freak breezed through the test— when he said he knew who had the missing kids, it came up No Deception.

  Finally, they decided not to go for it…even though they half–believed him. I thought he had some trick, something I could use myself when I was out in the World again. But he told me it was no trick at all. If you don't feel things, you can't show them. You stop feeling deep enough— all the way inside you— and you never bounce the needles.

  But it wasn't like he was a pure stone–face. He could laugh— even when he didn't see anything funny. He could cry too— Doc told me he used to do it in group all the time. Did it in court too, faking remorse the same way he faked laughter.

  He tried to explain it to me. He said you could cry on cue— all you had to do was think of something bad that happened to you when you were a kid, something that made you feel real sad inside.

  I tried it. Alone in my cell. Just to see if it worked. I went back, in my head. Went back to being a kid. But then I started shaking so bad I couldn't stop. My teeth were chattering, but the crying wouldn't come. All I got was those red dots behind my eyes, the red dots merging into a haze until I was looking through it…a red filter over my eyes. It made me afraid, that haze. Because the only way to make it go away was killing.

  And I could never kill the right ones. Could never find them.

  So I went dead myself. Went dead instead. At least I tried— I don't always pull it off. But when it comes to flat–faced, no–react lying, I'm an ace.

  That's why Hauser didn't know what he'd really said— didn't know he'd given me the code–breaker.

  And it wasn't in Indiana.

  I knew it then— I was on the spot. Marked.

  Judas–goated right into the clearing. If I walked away, it wouldn't be safety, it would be proof. Proof for the survivor.

  I couldn't cover all the bets, not by myself.

  I drove to the Bronx before morning light. First stop, the Mole's junkyard. He listened, his eyes somewhere else, absently fumbling with some electronic gadget he was working on. But when he nodded Okay, I knew I could take that to the bank.

  Next stop, Frankie. I waited outside the two–family house he lived in. Actually, he lived in the basement, off the books. That's the kind of thing the city would bust a Bronx homeowner for…while ignoring the after–hours joints with no fire exits. When Frankie rolled out to do his road work, I pulled alongside in the Plymouth. He climbed into the front seat.

  "I want to ask you a favor," I said.

  "Okay," he replied.

  "What I need— "

  "I meant, Okay I'll do it, not Okay, you can ask me," the kid said, his voice low and steady.

  "It's not crew business," I told him. "It's just me. And there's nothing in it for you— this isn't about a score."

  "I never had no family before," Frankie said. "But I always knew what I would do if I did. I used to dream about it Upstate, the way other guys dreamed about pussy. I can get pussy, you understand what I mean? But family…? I know what I'd be if it wasn't for the Prof. A fucking drunk, with no respect, not from anyone. Specially not from myself. I'd rather die like I am right now than live like I was, okay?"

  "Okay, kid," I told him, holding out my hand.

  After he shook it, I told him what I wanted.

  "Let's get off first," the Prof said to me. It was later that night. I was in the passenger seat of Clarence's Rover. The Prof was in the back, his upper body between the two front buckets.

  "Can't do that," I told him. "I know it's one of them, but it could be both."

  "If murder's the crime, one or two, it's all the same time, schoolboy. I don't feature this decoy shit."

  "It's the only way," I said. "Here's what I know. They may both be in it, but they're not together."

  "Who gives a flying fuck about that?" the Prof challenged, one hand on my upper arm. "Remember where you come from, son…same place as me, see? You know the rules. Hell, I taught you some of them. Listen to me. You been…messed up for a while. Ever since the…"

  "I know," I told him. I did know. That house in the Bronx, The kid. The dead kid. "Don't you ever feel…bad about it?" I asked.

  "You don't mean bad, you mean guilty," the Prof replied, eyes holding me as hard as his hand was. "I feel bad. I feel bad about a whole motherfucking bunch of things. But guilty? I'm not guilty, and I say that to the Lord, not to some cocksucking, ass–kissing, black–robed weasel–faced piece of dogshit scumbag judge. I didn't mean for it to happen— neither did you. And you know that. You know what guilt is, son? It's the evil people put on you. Like a hex. A voodoo curse. Guilt's nothing but loan shark's money, you understand. They don't want you to pay it off— motherfuckers live forever on the interest, like the miserable vampires they are, see?"

  "Yeah, but…"

  "There ain't no 'but,' goddamn it," he whispered urgently. "You feel bad, do something to make it right. But this human–sacrifice bit ain't shit. Remember this— they both the same color."

  I knew the color he meant. Blue. "Listen, brother," I said. "I know what you mean, and I'm not arguing. I wouldn't disrespect you like that. But here's the thing: if one of them is bent, and I do the other, then I'm boxed. Down for the count. 'Cause one thing's sure, Prof— whoever's doing it, they're watching me. Watching you too— this wasn't hatched up in one night."

  "I stand with my father," Clarence said. "Last time, they did what we sh
ould do— shoot first. This time, I will be ready, mahn."

  "I'm gonna play it out," I told them. "We got two trains coming on the same track from different directions. I'm standing in the middle. All I gotta do is jump out the way just before they hit. I pull it off, and it's done. I don't and I am. It feels…right. It's gotta play the way I say."

  "Your rhyme ain't worth a dime," the little man said. "But I love you, schoolboy. And I promise you this— you don't jump in time, I'll take what's mine.

  Even when I was a little kid, I knew the truth. If I wanted to stand my ground, I'd have to steal some first.

  My family is my ground now. All I've got. Everything.

  If I screwed it up, if it didn't play the way I figured it…then I knew what had to be done. Knew I wouldn't be around to do it.

  The Prof can do many things, but he's no assassin. I couldn't let him die trying.

  So I did the right thing.

  I went over to Mama's. Sat down in my booth and told her everything. She never made a note, but I knew it was engraved in her mind.

  If I didn't jump off the tracks in time, Max the Silent would visit the people who had shoved me down there.

  It was another three days before it happened. Almost midnight when the cellular phone in my jacket chirped like a damn cricket, jolting me awake. I opened the channel.

  "What?"

  "She call. Say you call back, quick."

  "See you later, Mama," I said.

  "You still— ?"

  I cut the connection.

  "Hello…" Her voice was trembly, trailing off to a whisper–breath.

  "It's me," I said.

  "I've got it," she said. "The proof. Certain–sure. And I'm scared. He could be— "

  "Say where and when."

  "Now! Right now. Can you— ?"

  I said Yes. She gave me the address.

  It was on Charlton Street, close by the river. Her name was on the bell: Belinda Roberts. I rang it, got buzzed in. It was a walk–up, four flights.

  The door was standing open. Belinda stuck her head out, waved me on. She was wearing only a black jersey bra and a pair of white shorts. I closed the gap between us. As I walked into the apartment, she stepped to one side. I could see from the way it was laid out that it was the only apartment on the floor.