16 Hitman (22 page)

I sprinted half a block to the car, fishing the keys from my
pocket and punching the remote button for the code alarm as I
came. Headlights flashed, the locks popped open.

I snuck a look behind me.

The cop hadn't even turned the corner yet.

Hot damn.

I wrenched open the door, flung my briefcase on the seat,
hopped in, and started it up.

I couldn't tell if the cop was coming because my mirror was
folded in. On the side streets, you always fold the mirror so it won't
get sheered off by someone passing a double-parked van. I lowered
the passenger side window and leaned across the front seat to push
the mirror.

A bee flew by my head. I knew it was a bee because it buzzed, and
because I'd just opened the window, which could have let one in. I
have to tell you, I don't mind bees outside, but not in a car. A bee in a
car has nowhere to go. It keeps bumping into you until it gets pissed
off and stings you. And who wants to get stung in the face by a bee?

Anyway, I ducked my head to avoid that happenstance and hit
the window button to let the sucker out.

That's when I saw the hole in the windshield.

Bees don't make a hole in the windshield. Or, a bee that does
is a bee to be reckoned with. But I didn't think that was the case.

Trembling all over, I peered over the edge of the seat in time to
see the cop pull up behind me. I kicked the door open, slid out,
and flattened myself against the side of the car.

The cop, who'd just gotten out of his cruiser, was surprised to
see me. "Hey, buddy. Can't park here."

"Officer!" I gasped.

"I was just going to give you a ticket. I didn't see you in there."

"Yeah, yeah! Look, you gotta help me!"

"Sure, buddy. First you gotta move your car"

"Shit!"

"Hey! Watch it, buddy!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake! You see the bullet hole in the windshield?"

His eyes narrowed. "You got a gun?"

And there I was, once again, caught in a shaggy dog story with
a moron who wouldn't listen.

"No, I don't have a gun, I'm not moving my car, and there's
something I want you to do right now!"

"What?"

"Arrest me!"

"THE BULLETS DON'T MATCH."

"Oh?"

Detective Crowley shook his head. "The bullet from the
upholstery of your car doesn't match the bullets from the body
of Victor Marsden."

"I wouldn't expect it to, since that gun is in police custody. At
least I hope it is."

Crowley looked lost for a moment.

"The bullet that killed Marsden is a bullet from the gun on the
body of Frankie Delgado, the man Sergeant Thurman killed. That
better not be kicking around."

"You're talking very wise for a man in your position. 11

"Someone who just got shot at?"

"No. I mean a murder suspect.You've been ID'd as the last man
to see Louie Russo alive."

"Really? I don't recall being picked out of any lineups."

"You're identified from the picture."

"What picture?"

"Your mug shot. From your booking for obstruction of justice."

"Oh, that's fair. Show your witness a bunch of photos, one of
which is a mug shot"

"That's not what we did."

"Were your other photos mug shots?"

"Most likely."

"Most likely?"

"The police supplied the pictures for the identification. I'm
sure they were the same."

"There's your reasonable doubt right there. I hope the rest of
your investigation's better managed."

Crowley stuck his chin out. He shouldn't have. It made him
look more boyish. "You're a wiseass son of a bitch, and from what
I hear, you got no reason to be."

"People are shooting at me. It makes me cranky."

"That hasn't been confirmed."

"What? Oh, I'm on the Upper West Side, so you expect a stray
bullet?"

"You could have fired it yourself."

"What?"

"The cop who found you doesn't recall hearing a shot. Just
seeing you pop up out of your car."

I put up my hands. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. I fired a shot
through my windshield into my car, ditched the gun, and hid on
the floor and waited for a cop to arrive?"

"I admit it sounds unlikely."

"No kidding."

"Except it was nine thirty. Just in time for alternate side
parking. The cop was due to arrive. If you shot the bullet earlier
and ditched the gun, you could go out just before nine thirty, wait till you see a cop coming, and duck down on the floorboards, knowing he'll stop at your car because at nine thirty
you're illegally parked"

I stared at him. "You know, if you'd apply half as much logic to
solving the crime, we wouldn't be here."

"Oh, we're working on that too," Crowley said airily. "It's just
every time we turn around, you pop up. I thought I told you to
butt out."

"I did butt out. I don't care what you think, I didn't shoot at
myself."

"No, but you got Louie Russo killed, and you don't even
know why."

"I don't even know if. You're making a lot of assumptions,
Crowley."

"Oh, we can ID you all right. You're the guy who spoke to
Louie."

"I mean about the conversation getting him killed."

"Well, what do you think got him killed?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, I do.You talk to the guy and he gets killed and you get
shot at"

"You're admitting I got shot at?"

"Say you did. Then there was something in that conversation
that was dangerous to someone else."

"Well, you're wrong."

"You admit you had the conversation?"

"I'm not admitting anything. But if I did have that conversation, there would be nothing in it of harm to anyone."

"How do you know?"

"Because I wouldn't have mentioned anything anyone didn't
already know, and neither would he."

"This conversation you're alluding to-the one you're not
admitting you had-if you had had it, what would you have said?"

"What do you mean?"

"Without admitting you had a conversation, could you reconstruct as closely as possible what you might have said?"

"You want me to speak hypothetically?"

"Yes. Can you do that?"

"Just don't tell my wife"

I TOLD ALICE ANYWAY. MUCH as she hates hypotheticals, this
one was different. In the absence of Richard, I had to look out for
myself. After all, people were shooting at me.

"Why aren't you in protective custody?" Alice wanted to know.

"You mean like in a hotel room with two police guards?"

"The schoolteacher's in police custody, isn't he?"

"That's different"

"Why?"

"They want to kill him for himself. Killing me is incidental. I
just happen to know something"

"What?"

"I have no idea. I stumbled over something in my pursuit of
this English teacher. I don't know what I know, but they don't
know that"

"Then you need protection."

"I haven't been abandoned. Cops are watching me."

"That will be small consolation when they watch you get shot."

"Alice, there's a cop outside right now. I call this number, tell
hint I'm going out, he meets me at the door. He gives me the allclear, escorts me to my car, gets nie on the road. Tags along to see
I haven't got a tail."

Alice's eyes widened. "You're going to work?"

"We can't stop living-11

"You're going to work!"

"Alice-"

"Someone's trying to kill you, and you're going to work! You're
going into these rough neighborhoods where you almost get killed
anyway. These housing projects and drug dens where anyone can
hide anywhere. You're going to make yourself a sitting duck, and
it's all right, because some beat cop in a cruiser is going to see it
happen!"

"You're getting all worked up."

"Are you crazy! These are mobsters! They shot one of their
own because they weren't happy with his performance. They
missed you, so you want to give them another chance?"

"You want me to hide from them forever while you walk Zelda
and do the shopping and everything else?"

"Why not?"

"Because when I don't come out, they'll grab you."

Alice looked at me in horror. "Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah."

"You're serious."

"There are only two possibilities here. They're out to get me or
they're not. If they're out to get me, they'll stop at nothing."

Alice looked pale. I took her by the arni. "There is a saving
grace. The cops want these guys. They want 'em bad. They're
gonna watch nie very well."

"But why do you have to work?"

"I have to keep up appearances. If I seem to be going about my business, the guys will either forget about nie or make a move.
Either way, it will wrap things up."

"But you don't have to go to work.You could pretend to work."

"What good would that do?"

"You could drive around to some nice neighborhoods. Safe
buildings. Clean, new, well lit."

"The doorman will tell me to get lost."

"You can't talk your way past a doorman?"

"I have work for Richard"

"What work?"

"I have to be in court, for one thing. Testify in a case."

"Couldn't he put it off?"

"Alice."

"Let him get an adjournment. Or continuance. Or whatever
the hell they call it. I mean, how important can it be?"

"The client's a quadriplegic."

"And if you put it off, Richard's afraid he might get better?"
Alice said sarcastically.

My thoughts flashed to Richard's other client, Jerome
Robinson, the man with the broken neck, miraculously improving
every day. Could a quadriplegic get better? "Some things can't
wait, Alice. I can't keep looking over my shoulder."

"Bad dialogue.You sound like a B-movie hero." Alice grabbed
me, looked in my eyes. "Please. Be careful."

"I promise."

I DROVE OUT To EAST NEW YORK. Not the type of place Alice
would have approved of, but I had business. And I felt a little guilty
about it, because I hadn't mentioned this business. I'd given
Richard's court case as the reason I had to work, instead. Whereas
actually I could have cared less about his damn quadriplegic, and
I'm sorry if that's insensitive, but a short postponement wouldn't
have killed anyone, because quadriplegics don't improve, and in the
end it's just money.

The real reason I didn't want to stop working, the reason I
hadn't given Alice, the reason I felt guilty about, was the mother
with the dead baby I'd bullied Richard into helping. And it wasn't
just that she was gorgeous, though she was. It was that I'd accomplished something, that I'd gotten some justice for somebody, and
I'd done it by bending the rules, like some crazy TV detective who
won't let the downtrodden suffer, who somehow finds a way. I'd
done it, and I'd done it proud, and if the woman that I'd done it for happened to look like a supermodel, well, that was just too
damn bad. It's not often in this business that I get to be the hero,
and I wanted to play the scene.

I rang ahead to make sure she was home. Told her I had to see
her. Didn't say why. She didn't argue. She was used to being told
what to do by men. I said I was coming up, and that was that.

My cop buddy picked me up at my door. A burly young guy
with a crew cut and no neck. A guy who, I realized, would have
seemed like an older man not that long ago. He told me the
street was clear and I could accompany him to my car. That was
good, because I didn't know where my car was parked. The cops
had towed it away and recovered the bullet and replaced the
windshield. They hadn't bought me a new car seat. The fabric
was merely patched, and cheaply at that, but I wasn't about to
complain. I hopped in, pulled on the seat belt, happy to be alive.

"Where you headed?" the cop asked.

"East New York."

"Is that a good idea?"

"It's on the agenda."

He shrugged and hopped into his cruiser, which was doubleparked right alongside. Handy being a cop. He backed up, and I
pulled out.

I drove down Broadway to Ninety-sixth Street and got on the West
Side Highway heading north. That must have confused him, since East
NewYork is in Brooklyn. At the G.W. Bridge exit, I took the CrossBronx Expressway east, to 1-87 south, to the Triboro Bridge. I took the
Grand Central Parkway out past LaGuardia and Shea Stadium. At the
exit for the Van Wyck, I bore right onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway.
Under its old name, the Interboro Parkway, it would have given the
cop a clue. The Interboro connects Brooklyn and Queens.

There was a method to my madness. My circuitous route had
involved mainly highway driving, as opposed to picking my way
though crowded city streets, where a sniper might be hiding.

I pulled up in front of Yolanda Smith's crack house. My cop
wasn't keen on sending me in there, wanted to go along. I told him
I was fine. It was an odd juxtaposition. In one of my scarier neighborhoods I actually felt safe.

Yolanda met me at the door. Showered, fresh, in a terry-cloth
robe. Her hair was wet. She looked sensational.

"What is it?"

I smiled. "The lawyer's going to take your case."

"Yes!"

She clapped her hands, threw her arms around me, gave me a hug.

Did I do it just for that?

Absolutely not. Even if her bathrobe was slipping just a little.

I tried to keep it professional. After all, it was professional.
Purely professional. I had no ulterior motive. Just to do the right
thing. A white knight on a steed.

I sat her down, told her how it would be. She shouldn't get her
hopes up. There might be problems. But the lawyer was willing to try.

She didn't understand. In her mind, if the lawyer was taking her
case, that should be that. "I don't see what's so hard. I lost my baby.
They were in the wrong."