False Allegations Read online

  Clarence catapulted off the railing, falling into step next to the woman like he was going to walk her to church. We watched them until they were out of sight. The Prof extended an open palm for me to slap. "That boy can go. And I taught him everything he know."

  "He learned from the master," I acknowledged.

  "Too true," the little man replied. "Only thing, I can't figure out why he likes them so skinny."

  I didn't say anything. The girl had been maybe five, six, and she'd trip the scales right around welterweight. If every man in America had the Prof's taste, anorexia would vanish overnight.

  A few minutes went by peacefully. Then the Prof said, "The Queen's on the scene, Schoolboy. Get it done, son."

  I started across to the statue. Where Wolfe waited.

  The years hadn't changed her. Pale gunfighter's eyes set wide apart in a cameo of fair, unblemished skin, all surrounded by a mass of heavy brunette curls. Standing tall on black spike heels, her carriage proud and straight. "It's been a long time," she said softly, "but I keep hearing about you."

  "I hear about you too," I told her.

  "And that's why you're here," she said, getting right to it, like always.

  I just looked at her. Years ago, she'd told me the truth: "You and me, it's not gonna be," she'd said then. Reading the menu, changing restaurants before she got a taste. I didn't blame her—Wolfe crossed the border once in a while, but she didn't want to live there. "You know about a guy name Kite?" I asked her finally.

  "You want pedigree?"

  "I want whatever you got."

  "Past, present, or future?"

  "You do that? Surveillance?"

  "Not twenty–four–seven. But we can pull agency stuff every day. And he's on the Net too."

  "What's the toll?"

  "You can have a voice bio for a deuce, paper package for five. A cross–check, right up to today, that's another five, unless he's webbed and you want the whole thing run."

  "And the updates?"

  "A grand for every hit, voice–notify. Half that just to keep the watch on."

  "You must be rich, girl, you getting prices like that."

  "I've got heavy expenses," she said, flashing her gorgeous smile. But her eyes stayed hard.

  "You trust me for the voice bio?"

  "Sure," she said. "But I know you wouldn't hit the street without at least that much cash. The kind of bail they'd put on you, you have to be carrying a much bigger piece just for case money."

  "You want it here?" I asked, not denying her diagnosis.

  "Tell one of your people to throw it in the car," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the Audi.

  "Nobody's getting that close to your beast," I told her. I knew how Wolfe parked her car: passenger window wide open, the Rottweiler in the front seat, praying for invaders. He was a legendary killer—rumor is he even has a Judas cat who lures other felines into the yard so the Rottie can munch on them.

  "Bruiser doesn't eat money," she said, giving me another smile. "I said throw it in—it'll be okay."

  I held up two fingers, like I was testing the wind. "Consider it done," I told her.

  Wolfe slit a pack of cigarettes with a long red fingernail, tapped one out. I fired up a wooden match, cupped the flame for her. She leaned against me, slightly, just barely making contact. I could smell her lemon–jasmine perfume. Sweet and sharp, like she was.

  "He's a lawyer," she said softly. "Yale. Class of 1975. Full scholarship. Law review, top five per cent. He did matrimonial, then entertainment."

  I nodded. Like I was listening, not like I'd heard it before. Wondering how she had all that in her memory bank—was she working Kite for someone else?

  "He gave that up, years ago," she continued. "Now he's a free–lance hit man on child abuse cases. Specializes in blowing up testimony. He's damn good at it. Smart, thorough. Plugged in too. He gets really good information. Mostly pays for it, but he trades too."

  "Bent?"

  "I don't know," she admitted. "I'd like to think so, the side of the street he works and all. He plays hard. Even dirty, sometimes. I don't know where he gets some of his stuff, but I never heard of him manufacturing evidence."

  "He's a science man?"

  "Soft science. Psychology, not DNA or fingerprints. And pseudo–science too. Garbage like the 'False Memory syndrome.' He stays in the shadowland. The kind of cases where you never really know the truth, understand?"

  "He never got burned?"

  "Not badly. He doesn't testify himself. I know of at least three different cases where there would have been a finding if it hadn't been for him."

  "A 'finding'? You mean a conviction?"

  "No. In Family Court, in a child abuse case, they call it a 'finding' if they decide the abuse really went down. He works the civil side too. You know, lawsuits—"

  "Yeah," I interrupted. "But if he doesn't testify…"

  "One time, he found out the testifying therapist was in the middle of her own case. Trying to bar her ex–husband from visits, claimed he had molested their daughter."

  "So? That doesn't mean—"

  "He found out she'd done a couple of dozen evaluations. And she always concluded the child was molested. Every time. And she always said certain things were done to the child. Every time."

  "She made it up?"

  "Or she was so spooked she kept seeing ghosts, projecting her own kid's life on the ones she interviewed. No way to know. But when the jury heard she never interviewed a kid who wasn't abused, not even once…that was the ball game. Another time, he found out that the therapist had been abused herself when she was a kid."

  "That's not so amazing, right? A lot of people go into the business because they—"

  "Sure," Wolfe said, holding my eyes. "But this particular therapist, she'd never said a word until she was all grown. In her thirties. And when she came out with it, nobody believed her. So the way the jury got to hear it, the therapist was obsessed with believing whatever a child had to say, see?"

  "One of those 'kids never lie' people, huh?"

  "You got it. And that was the ball game right there."

  "The information he had, it was righteous?"

  "Absolutely. But that doesn't mean he always shows you the whole deck."

  "So if he had information that would hurt the defense, he'd sit on it?"

  "I don't know. He says not."

  "You talked to him?"

  "Once. Years ago. He was trying to get me to drop a case. He came to the office. We talked. He's got a real true–believer rap. Says it's all a witch hunt. Kind of like the lawyers who say every time a black man's accused of a crime, it's racism. I couldn't tell if he bought his own speech or not—he doesn't give a lot away on his face."

  "What happened with your case?" I asked her.

  "It was a day care center. Molestation. We got a conviction. Reversed on appeal—the Appellate Division said the initial questioning was too suggestive."

  "Your office?"

  "No," Wolfe bristled. "The first caseworker on the scene. And the therapist they referred the kids to."

  "You buy it?"

  "The questioning could have been cleaner," Wolfe admitted. "But there was a ton of other evidence. It's like the AD was looking for an excuse."

  "There's a lot of that going around," I said.

  "Yeah," she said dryly. "Anyway, this Kite's a strange bird all right. He said to me—actually, he swore to me—that he's just after the truth. That if he ever found a real stand–up case, he'd go to the mat with it. For the kid, not the defendant."

  "And you've heard that before…"

  "I have. Lots of times. But with this guy, I wouldn't swear to it. Either way."

  "Thanks."

  "You want the documents?"

  "Yeah. Whatever you have. And maybe the watch, too."

  "Are you in something?" she asked quietly.

  "I might be. I don't know. But if I go down the tunnel, I'd like some light."

&nbs
p; "Chiara—you talked to her before—she lives around here. Goes for a run every afternoon around five. She'll have the documents with her tomorrow, okay?"

  "The blonde girl with the pit bull?"

  "That's an AmStaff," Wolfe said, smiling.

  "Sure," I told her. "Whatever you say."

  "Give her the money," Wolfe said by way of goodbye. She turned and walked away. Suddenly she pivoted, stepped back toward me. I walked up to meet her. She stood very close, voice low, hardly moving her lips. "He's got a lot of friends," she said. "If something happened to him, there'd be a lot of people looking."

  "He got a lot of enemies?" I asked her innocently.

  "Those too," she said.

  "Anything happening?" I asked Mama from the pay phone on the fringe of the park.

  "Woman call. Say you call Kite tomorrow morning, okay?"

  "Okay. Anything else?"

  "No. Burke…"

  "What?"

  "Woman very angry."

  "Why? What did she say?"

  "Say nothing. What I tell you, that's all."

  "So?"

  "Under her voice. Very angry."

  "At me?"

  "I don't know. But very angry. Maybe you—"

  "I'm always careful, Mama," I told her.

  When someone at Kite's social level says "morning," they mean: any time past nine. Me, I was raised different. You knew it was morning by the PA system blaring in the corridor. That was prison. Before that, it was the juvenile institution, with the boss–man sticking his ugly head into the dorm room and screaming at you. Most of the time, in the juvie joints, I was awake anyway—hard to sleep when it could cost you so much to close your eyes or turn your back.

  I never heard an alarm clock when I was a kid, not even in the freakish foster home they sentenced me to that first time. They woke me up there with a kick or a slap. Once with a pot of scalding water. I told the social worker it had been an accident—told her I tripped right near the stove. She didn't believe me. I didn't want her to believe me. But she acted like she did, and nothing ever happened.

  If it hadn't been for the fire, they would have left me in that place.

  I watched the darkness lift, sitting with Pansy on my rusty fire escape, smoking a peaceful cigarette, scratching her behind her ears the way she likes. I had the cell phone with me, complete with a newly cloned number good for at least another few days, but time wasn't pressing so there was no need to risk it. I heated up a pint of roast pork almond ding Mama had insisted I take with me last visit. Pansy's the only dog I ever heard of who loves almonds. But until I run across something she won't eat, I'm not going to be too impressed with it. Me, I had some rye toast, dry, and some ice water.

  I ate slowly, reading the paper. The usual mulch of crime and whine. Another little girl tortured to death. Child Protective Services couldn't comment on the rumor that they'd returned the kid to her mother after the last abuse and never bothered to check up on her again. After all, their records are confidential. To protect the kids. Lying maggots. Politicians promised an investigation as the usual babblers ranted on: If you're a parent and you feel like hurting your kid, seek counseling. Yeah, that ought to do it. Next thing you know, they'll be telling incest victims to Just Say No.

  Of course, a spontaneous memorial sprung up outside the building where the little girl died: handwritten poetry about how much everybody loved her, pictures cut from newspapers. Flowers as dead as that baby. But that's okay—it'll make the late news on TV. And they'll have an open–casket wake, so there'll be plenty of photo ops too.

  All that concern for dead babies, none of it for the living ones. Everything as empty as a President's promise.

  I felt a shudder of hate, like someone had pulled a string of broken glass right through my spine. I stared for a long time at the red dot I'd painted on my mirror, breathing deep through my nose all the way down into my groin….

  When I came out of it, it was almost three hours later. I didn't think about where I'd gone, but I didn't like the fear–stink in the room.

  I took a shower and tried to start over. I worked on my mail for a while, keeping the lines out, trolling for freaks. They're the easiest to sting, especially the stalkers who want kids. But the Internet has changed the game a bit—they all want samples now. I know this guy. Everyone calls him Spike. Doesn't leave his house much, and doesn't say why. But he hates the baby–rapers and he's real good with software—you lock modems with this boy, your hard drive's going to fry.

  Spike lets me use one of his machines for an E–mail drop, but I only tap it for big scores, not the nickel–and–dime stuff I usually work. It's all anarchy on the Internet now. Makes me nervous. I'm more comfortable when I know the rules—it's easier to cheat.

  "Mr. Kite's office." It was the woman, a tightness in her husky voice.

  "It's Burke," I said. "Returning his call."

  "Thank you. Can you come over? There's some information you need to have. Before you make up your mind."

  "Come over now?"

  "Yes. If that's convenient."

  "I need about an hour, hour and a half."

  "That would be fine."

  There was enough of a snap in the air to justify me putting on a leather jacket over a denim work shirt and a pair of cargo pants. I laced up a pair of work boots, patted myself down to make sure I had everything else, tapped Mama's number into the cellular, told her where I was going. Now that Wolfe had confirmed Kite was a major player, I wasn't worried about him pulling up stakes. And Max knew where to find him if he was going to be stupid.

  It didn't feel like that though.

  I walked over to Foley Square, taking my time, and grabbed the 6 Train uptown.

  I found a seat next to a white kid with the sides of his head shaved but center–parted long hair flopping down each side of his narrow face. He had a pair of headphones tight on his head but I could still hear the bass line pounding through. He was nodding to himself, playing Russian roulette with his eardrums.

  I got out at Fifty–first. The streets were quiet—still too early for the two–hour–lunch crowd. I snapped a half–smoked cigarette into the gutter and stepped into Kite's building.

  The doorman opened his mouth to say something about the service entrance, but I beat him to the punch with Kite's name. He picked up the desk phone, announced me, listened for a second, then waved me into the private elevator with no change of facial expression. He was a professional ass–kisser, reserving his special talent for members only.

  The ancient elevator car's hydraulics were as well–greased as Congress—it rocked slightly but didn't make a sound on the way up. The door opened to show me the woman, Heather, standing behind the grille. She was wrapped in a gauzy piece of red chiffon, heavy makeup masking her face. Her hair was sleek and shiny; in the faint light, it looked the same color as the black–cherry soda I used to love when I was a kid.

  She stepped back so I could swing the grille open. The chiffon wrap was open to the waist, cinched tightly with a belt of the same material. Her breasts looked artificial in the dim light, jutting huge and rigid, the nipples so heavily rouged they almost disappeared.

  I closed the grille behind me. When I turned back to face her, she was already walking down the hall without a word. I stepped behind her, not too close. Her hands went to her waist, came away with the sash. She shrugged her shoulders and the wrap slid off. She kept walking, barefoot, naked except for a red garter high on her thick right thigh. Released from the bondage of the corset she'd been wearing the last time, her body was still curvy, but soft and fleshy, shimmering with every bouncy, assured step she took.

  As she turned the corner into the big open room, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. I stopped too, just in time to keep from blundering into her. She spun on her heel and whirled to face me, a left hook coming up from around her hip, catching me right under the cheekbone. I dropped with the punch. As I hit the ground, I whipped my left leg around on the slick hardwood
floor—the toe of my heavy boot cracked hard into her ankle. Her leg wouldn't hold her and she fell forward, right on top of me. I took her face into my chest as I fired a two–finger strike into the side of her neck. She gasped in pain and tried to claw at my face, snarling some foulness I couldn't understand, but I had my forearms crossed and she never got through. I turned under her, just in time to take her knee on the outside of my thigh, pulled my right hand free and hit her with a sharp, digging punch just under her ribs—I felt her breath go. I spun with the punch, got her facedown on the floor, and rammed my knee into her spine as I reached forward and locked her jaw with both hands. "One snap and you're in a fucking wheelchair for life, bitch!" I whispered in her ear.

  Her whole body shook, but she didn't try to break the hold. "You done?" I asked her.

  "Yes," she said quietly, her body limp.

  I backed off her, carefully. She stayed facedown on the floor, pulling in ragged breaths. A muscle jumped right over the red garter on the back of her thigh.

  A minute passed. I slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket, palmed a roll of quarters, made a fist. Waited.

  She slid her knees forward so her hips were elevated, but she kept her face on the floor. It was a submissive position, like an animal calling off a territorial fight. "Can I get up?" she said.

  "Do it slow," I told her.

  She tried to put some weight on her left leg, but it was no go. She gave it up and turned to face me on her knees, eyes on mine, gazing up. She didn't look submissive any longer—her orange eyes were as cold and watchful as a lizard's.

  "What the fuck was that?" I asked.

  "A warning," she said, still short of breath, but her voice hard. "It was supposed to be a beating. Just to show you. I thought, if you saw me naked all of a sudden, you'd be…frozen. And I could get the first shot in, before you realized…" She gulped down another breath, eyes still steady on mine. "I thought you'd take it—I didn't think you'd hit a woman."

  "You had bad information," I told her.