False Allegations Page 8

  "Yes!" Kite said, clenching a fist. "Didn't I tell you?" he challenged, looking over my shoulder at the woman. "Mr. Burke is our man. Good research never lies."

  The woman bowed her head, like she just heard the Truth.

  "I have been told you are a master interrogator," he said, turning his gaze back to me.

  "By who?" I asked him.

  "Mr. C.," he said smoothly, laying down a trump card with a flourish. Mr. C., the Mafia don who paid me ten thousand dollars once. Just to come to a meal, listen to what some man I didn't know said. And tell Mr. C. if he was saying the truth. He wasn't.

  "Anyone else?" I asked him, not showing he'd scored a hit. Not on my face, anyway.

  "Oh yes, Mr. Burke. Numerous others. Heather…"

  I heard the tap of her spike heels again. Another tapping then. Computer keys. Then the quiet whirring of the laser printer. I worked the cell phone signal again. The woman walked briskly past me, a long piece of paper in her hand. She handed it over to Kite, not bending over this time. Stood standing next to him, hip–shot, arms folded under her breasts. The backs of her arms were thick with muscle, her legs were power–curved, calves bulging hard against her stockings. He glanced over the paper, gave her a curt nod. She walked off. When I heard her heels stop clicking, I knew she was back in position again, somewhere behind me.

  He handed the paper to me. A list.

  A baby–raper sitting in the Brooklyn House of Detention. His 18–B lawyer thought he was innocent. Asked me to come along on an interview so I could get the facts, start looking around. I talked to the freak. And he finally told the lawyer all about what he'd done. A sick man, he said he was.

  A Teflon–slick pedophile, computer–networked. In a lovely brownstone, safe and secure. We danced and dueled. Ended up trading. I got what I needed. He got what he thought was a free pass the next time he fell.

  A guy who hired me to find out who raped and killed his wife. He thought he could trust me—after all, I was working for him. Twice stupid.

  A long list. And you couldn't get that stuff just by having a friend on the force or bribing some clerk.

  "Good job," I said, not pretending.

  "I always do a good job," he said.

  "Say what you want," I told him, glancing at my watch, making sure he saw the move.

  "Can't you guess?"

  "Somebody said they were sexually abused. Some kid, I guess. And you want me to prove they're lying."

  "No, Mr. Burke," he said, talking in measured tones, making sure I heard every word. "I want you to prove they're telling the truth. I know your time is valuable. And I've used a good deal of it this afternoon. Heather will give you a representative sampling of my work on the syndrome. I'd like you to look it over. When you're ready, give me a call. Then we'll talk again. Fair enough?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you for your time," he said formally. He got to his feet and walked out of the room.

  I sat there, waiting. The woman came over to me, handed me a thick red folio, its flap anchored by the string looped between two circular tabs. "It's all here," she said.

  I got up, followed her to the wrought–iron door. She didn't say goodbye.

  "You okay, mahn?" Clarence asked, as I climbed into the back seat.

  "Yeah," I told him, not sure myself.

  "What did the man want, then?"

  "Offered me a job. At least, that's what he said."

  "Our kind of work?" the West Indian asked. Meaning: did he want something stolen or someone scammed. Or shot, maybe.

  "I don't think so," I said. "Hard to tell. But I think I know who to ask."

  I never opened the red file folder. It sat on my desk like an ashtray a kid makes for his mother in school—a mother who doesn't smoke. No point reading the stuff until I knew who wrote it.

  It took four days to set up the meet. Wolfe wasn't chief of City–Wide Special Victims anymore. Couple of years ago, three college boys slipped a little chloral hydrate into a sorority girl's drink at a frat party. When she passed out, they took her down to a basement they had all fixed up. When she came to, she was tied up, penetrated by all three of them at the same time. The games went on for a long time. Thirty–six minutes, to be exact. Easy enough to prove that. Easy enough to prove it all—the boys had it on videotape.

  When they were done, they dumped her on the front lawn of the sorority house. Naked. Bleeding a little bit from where they used the broomstick. The house mother called everybody except the police, but one of the other girls finally got the victim to a hospital.

  The rape kit came up aces. Lots of sperm, and the boys were all secretors. The hospital took nice close–up photos too. You could see the bruising and the inflammation so clearly that some freak would probably pay a good price for it—good torture–porn stuff is always in high demand.

  Nobody thought to test the victim's blood. They figured she'd been drunk, never suspected anything else. Everything was quiet until one of the rapists' frat brothers saw the video at a beer party. It didn't turn him on. It made him sick—he had a sister of his own. He took it to the cops.

  Wolfe played the video for a grand jury. The boys were indicted for the whole boat–load: Rape One, Sodomy One, Aggravated Sexual Abuse, Unlawful Imprisonment….They were looking at about a thousand years apiece on paper—maybe eight and a third to twenty-five in real life…if some whore judge didn't give them probation.

  The boys said she was a nympho. Begged them to do it. Hell, told them how to do it. The video…well, they had that lying around, sure. But making the movie, that was her idea. Even asked them for a copy. "SHE ASKED FOR ROUGH SEX, SAY COLLEGE BOYS!" screamed the headline from the same paper that called a thirty–five–year–old teacher "Classanova" for having sex with one of his fourteen–year–old students. New York: No jungle was ever so savage. Or so cold.

  The boys' parents put together a whole team of lawyers—a white–shoe firm to negotiate a civil settlement, a couple of hardball criminal defense guys to explain what was going to happen to the girl if she was stupid enough to take the stand. They offered a sweet package—let the boys plead to a bunch of misdemeanors, take probation, do some community service, maybe even some sensitivity training in "gender boundaries." And they'd pay for whatever therapy the girl needed, say a quarter–million dollars' worth. After all, she was a sick kid, but the boys were still willing to take responsibility for their part in the whole sad affair.

  Wolfe had the girl with a therapist. A good, strong therapist who was a warrior in her own fashion. She got the girl ready to face it all—ready for war. Wolfe told the pack of lawyers she was going to do to the boys what they'd done to the girl. Only it was going to last a lot longer.

  Then Wolfe got taken off the case. In fact, they pulled the whole thing right out of her unit. Gave it to a kid who'd never tried a sex case before. A kid who'd gone to the same school where it all happened.

  Wolfe told them they were tanking the case. They told Wolfe to shut up. Wolfe told them where to stick it and went to the papers.

  Accusations flew.

  Wolfe got fired.

  The case went to trial.

  The boys were acquitted.

  Wolfe was the best sex crimes prosecutor anyone had ever seen. Every cop in the city knew it. They all said if Wolfe had handled the Simpson case, O.J. would be working on a life sentence instead of his golf game. But nobody would hire her after the unpardonable sin of standing up. If you work for the D.A.'s Office, you can be a drunk or a fool, a moron or a pervert. You can be late to work, screw up cases, have sex with your secretary…it doesn't matter, if your hooks are good. But you have to go along to get along, fall to your knees when the bosses snap their fingers.

  Wolfe wouldn't do that, so they threw her whole life in the garbage for payback.

  The rest of the staff got the message. None of the others in her old unit stood up except her pal Lily, the social worker, who only worked there as a consultant anyway. Wolfe formed a new cre
w. Started working campus investigations: date rape, sexual harassment, stalking. The schools hire her on a per–job basis—she'll never have another boss besides herself.

  But there was something else. Something I'd picked up from the whisper–stream that flows just under the city's streets. The word said she'd gone outlaw after being fired, running her own intelligence cell, picking stuff up from the deep network she'd established when she was head of City–Wide…and selling it.

  You can't trust everything you hear from the underground—the whisper–stream vacuums up everything, gold to garbage.

  But I knew who to ask.

  "I can place the face," the Prof said to me out of the side of his mouth, "but the crew is new."

  We were on a bench in the park next to Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. A beautiful fall day, late September but still warm enough for the "Look at me!" crowd to display a lot of skin. The Prof was looking across to a parking lot where a tall woman with long dark hair was getting out of a battered old Audi sedan. She was wearing a white jumpsuit, a white beret set on her head at a jaunty angle. It was a good fifty yards away, but I could make out the distinctive white wings in her hair. I recognized the barrel–bodied Rottweiler she held on a short leash too. Wolfe. And the infamous Bruiser.

  "You got them all?" I asked.

  "One on the left," the Prof said. "With all the kids."

  I took a glance. A small girl with long straight dark hair, surrounded by a pack of children. She was wearing a baggy pair of red–and–white–striped clown pants and a white T–shirt with some writing on the front. Big words, red letters. A beret on her head too; red. She had the kids bouncing around in some kind of snake dance, all of them laughing and waving their arms, following her lead. Black kids, white kids, Latino kids, Oriental kids…dozens of them, it looked like. The girl took a quick run–up and launched into a cartwheel, bounced up and clapped her hands. The kids all tried it at once, a riot of color tumbling over the grass. Adults stood back and watched, respectful of the magic.

  "Catch the backup?" the Prof asked, tilting his chin at a big rangy–looking man in jeans and a cut–off black sweatshirt, his long light–brown hair tied in a ponytail. He had an athlete's build, stood with his hands open at his sides. Moving to the back of the watchers, rolling his shoulders, his hands empty, the man never took his eyes off the girl in the clown pants.

  "Karate man?" I asked.

  "Or boxer," the Prof replied. "Something like that. He ain't strapped, but he's got the broad wrapped, no question."

  A young woman came down the path, a mass of dark–blonde hair spilling out from under a purple beret. Lemon–yellow bicycle shorts were topped by a white T–shirt with red lettering, same as the girl in the clown pants. She had a cell phone in a sling over one shoulder, a vanilla ice cream cone in the other hand. At her side was a light–tan dog with a white blaze on its chest—looked like a pit bull with uncropped ears. The dog moved with a delicate, mincing gait, its big head swiveling to watch anyone who got close.

  The blonde stopped, dropped to one knee, held the ice cream cone inches from the dog's snout. The beast didn't move a muscle, feral eyes somewhere in the middle distance so it wouldn't be tempted to break the command. Then the blonde said something and the dog snapped the entire head off the ice cream cone in one happy snatch. The blonde stood up and kept walking, nonchalantly munching on what was left of the cone.

  The girl got near enough for me to read the lettering on her shirt: the same DON'T! BUY! THAI! I'd seen on the woman at Boot's joint. I knew what that was about—I'd seen the same shirt a dozen times since. There's been a boycott going against anything made in Thailand for a while now. They sell babies for sex in Thailand. "Kiddie sex tourism," they call it. A whole lot of folks figured it out a long time ago: they sell babies for money, you choke off their money, maybe they'll stop it. Me, I'd rather choke off their air supply, but their neck's too thick.

  The young woman stopped a few feet away from us, the dog halting next to her, regarding us with that flat disinterested stare that all the really dangerous ones have. The dog's short, muscular body was wrapped in one of those layered workout shirts, pink on top with just a hint of white around the neckline. When she sat up, I could read what was printed on the chest of the jersey. "IF YOU CAN READ THIS, CALL 911."

  "What kind of dog is that?" I asked her.

  "She's an AmStaff," the woman said. "An American Staffordshire Terrier."

  "Looks like a pit bull to me," I told her.

  "They were originally the same," she said, like she had all day to explain. "Petey, you remember, from the Little Rascals? He was the first AmStaff. They're like the show version of the pits. Sweeter too, right, Honey?" she cooed.

  The dog responded to her name with a soft snarl. The woman stepped closer. Her face was lovely: huge eyes, peaches–and–cream skin. But her mouth was straight and serious—I didn't need the beret to tell me she was with Wolfe.

  "You have something for me, Mr. Burke?" she asked.

  "Just a message," I said, not reacting to her knowing my name. "For Wolfe. You can do that, right?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm interested in somebody. Man named Kite. Think she could help me?"

  "That depends."

  "On…?"

  "We're in business, Mr. Burke. Just like you."

  "I'll pay what it costs," I said. "When can you do it?"

  "Maybe now," she answered. "I have to make a call. Just stay here, all right? Pepper will come over and tell you."

  "Pepper?"

  "You already spotted her," the young woman said, glancing over to where the girl in the clown pants was showing the kids how to twirl long thick ribbons on sticks.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but the young woman walked off. The dog she said wasn't a pit bull looked over her shoulder at me without breaking stride, a clear warning.

  It was another fifteen, twenty minutes before the girl in the clown pants broke away from the mob of kids, waving goodbye. Half of them tried to follow her—it took her a few minutes to get clear. The guy in the black sweatshirt stayed right behind her, about twenty feet back. I watched Max pick him up on an angle, moving fast but so smooth you couldn't tell unless you referenced him against the stationary trees.

  She rolled up on us with a springy dancer's walk, flashing a smile bright enough to light up a suicide ward. "Hi!" she called out.

  "You're Pepper?" I asked by way of greeting.

  "That's me, chief!" she said, throwing a mock salute. "At your service."

  The guy in the black sweatshirt settled in behind her, hands still at his sides. Max settled in too, maybe four paces to his right—he must have made the guy for a southpaw.

  "Tell your friend to relax," I said to Pepper. "We're friends too."

  "My friend? Oh, you mean Mick? He's fine where he is, okay?"

  "Sure. You're gonna fix it? For me to talk to Wolfe?"

  She stepped closer. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, deep and lustrous, shining with some inner happiness I'd never know. "You know the big statue? In the plaza?"

  "Yes."

  "Go on over. Walk slow. By the time you get there, you can talk to her."

  "Thanks."

  "You get what you pay for," she said, flashing another smile.

  Clarence caught up with me and the Prof before we got halfway to the statue. He was wearing a mango jacket over a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck. His pants were black too, ballooning at the knees and tapering down to a narrow peg at the cuff. The saddle–stitching matched his jacket, right out of the Fifties. His shoes were midnight mirrors.

  "Max went with the big guy, followed him right out. He hooked up with the Pied Piper girl. He's got a beautiful old bike, mahn. A Norton Black Shadow. British, you know. The girl just jumped on the back and they took off."

  "What about the other one? The blonde with the pit bull?"

  "Ah, that one. She is a piece of work, mahn. I was walking behind her. Just slow, ambl
ing like. You know the pull–over spot? Where the cops park to watch everything?"

  "Yeah. By the library, right?"

  "Yes, mahn. There are two cops sitting there in a prowl car. You know, kicked back—not cooping or anything, just chilling. So this blonde girl, she walks up on them. And the pit bull, mahn, it stands up on its hind legs and sticks its snout right inside the car. And when it comes out, it has a donut in its mouth! I could not believe it, mahn—that damn dog must think the police car is a vending machine. I never saw such boldness."

  "Ah, the cops were probably just trying to make points with the blonde."

  "No mahn. It was not like that, I tell you. It was the dog. I believe it does that all the time, like a regular thing. Amazing."

  We found a piece of railing just across from the statue. Wolfe was nowhere in sight. The Prof hoisted himself up onto the railing, dangling his short legs free, basking in the sun.

  Girls walked by. On parade. Every size and shape and color on the earth, it seemed like. The railing was lined with young men, some not so young. All fishing off the same pier, but using different bait. Some smiled shyly, some fiddled with cellular phones self–importantly, like they were making some big deal. One guy did an ostentatious series of stretches, like he was getting ready to run a marathon. Some crooned "baby!" some snarled "bitch!" Some of the girls smiled, some of them looked away. None of them stopped.

  Clarence just watched. A woman with high cheekbones and glowing dark–chocolate skin approached. She had on a white halter top and white shorts, cornrowed raven hair swinging with her step. She passed right in front of us, close. Her butt looked like a bursting peach. "Oh, God has blessed you, girl!" Clarence called out, sincerity lacing his voice like honey in tea.

  "Might be He could bless you too, you act as sweet as you talk," the girl called back over her shoulder, not breaking stride.