Dancer in the Flames (17 page)

Boots waved at a mosquito that buzzed his left ear. An instant later, he felt the insect land on the back of his neck. He slapped down hard, but his skin began to itch before he withdrew his hand. Hoping this would be the only race he lost tonight, Boots said a little prayer.

The Chevy was facing away from the Pink Rose, so that the driver’s door opened on the street. With the bulb in the overhead light removed, Boots was able to leave the door slightly ajar without attracting attention. He was scrunched down behind the wheel, with the seat all the way back, his eyes glued to the rear-view mirror.

As the minutes ticked away, his thoughts were inevitably drawn to the recent past, to the long period of waiting. The delay had been forced on him by his injuries, and it wasn’t only his ribs. For the first few weeks, he couldn’t put two thoughts together. Yet he’d somehow managed to function. He’d shored up his flanks and thrown his enemies off the scent. Proof of the last had come only a short time before. Rather than track down Artie Farrahan, Boots had simply waited outside Brooklyn North for the man to emerge, then followed him. Farrahan had barely glanced in the mirror on the twenty-minute drive to Ridgewood.

The door of the Pink Rose opened and Boots jerked his eyes to the rear-view mirror. The tall blonde who emerged looked both ways before strolling off in the opposite direction. Boots watched her for a moment, then let his eyes drift to a crescent moon just visible on the horizon. Screened by the haze and a layer of thin clouds, the moon had no distinct edges, its light seeming to bleed into the atmosphere. On the radio, John Sterling described Noesi’s mastery of the Oriole line-up.

Boots lowered the volume and settled in to wait. A half-hour passed, then another, but the delay only helped to settle him down. Nor was he unduly affected by the Yankee’s narrow defeat, though he found the post-game wrap-up a depressing mix of bullshit and excuses. The Yanks had lost because Joe Girardi had a fixation with not yanking pitchers early. Joe wanted to build their confidence, or so he claimed, especially with the younger pitchers. Boots couldn’t see it, not with all that money on the table. Shut up and pitch was the way he felt as he turned off the radio.

At ten fifteen, Artie Farrahan emerged from the Pink Rose. Alone, he limped toward Boots, weaving as he came. Boots waited patiently, until Farrahan tried to yank a cigarette from a crumpled pack and stumbled, dropping to one knee. Then Boots slid his fingers into a pair of leather gloves, opened the door and slid out into the street.

Crouched beneath the window line, he closed the door without latching it. His heart was pounding now, and he had to will himself to ignore the adrenaline pumping through his veins, to open his ears, to listen. Fortunately, Detective Farrahan provided unwitting assistance. He sang as he came – ‘Danny Boy’, in a surprisingly sweet falsetto.

Boots dropped down to peer beneath the car at Farrahan’s shiny-black loafers, cursing to himself when they came to a stop behind the rear tire. A second later, a cigarette dropped to the sidewalk, emitting a tiny cloud of red sparks. Farrahan made several attempts to extinguish the smoldering butt, the sole of his shoe first coming down on one side, then the other. Finally, he moved on.

When Farrahan reached the front fender, Boots rose from his crouch and came around the trunk, gathering speed as he turned on to the sidewalk. Stealth, of course, was not a realistic possibility for a man his size. As Boots knew he would, Farrahan heard the footsteps pounding toward him. He had just enough time to execute a wobbly half-circle, to register what was about to happen, before Detective Littlewood’s shoulder crashed into his chest.

Farrahan fell backward, his head striking the concrete with an audible thunk. Barely conscious, he made a feeble attempt to unbutton his jacket, to reach for his weapon. But then Boots was on top of him and the best he could do was raise a hand and beg.

‘Boots, please, please.’

Boots recalled his own attempt to survive. No mercy had been show him then. He would show no mercy here. He yanked Artie Farrahan to his feet, propped him up against a parked car and drove his right fist into Farrahan’s side, over and over again, until something finally cracked. Then he shifted the assault to Farrahan’s face and hammered away. Blood was running now, from the back of Farrahan’s scalp and from his crushed nose. Still, Boots didn’t stop until the man’s eyes closed and he went limp. Then he took Farrahan’s pulse, finding it strong and regular, before dropping him to the pavement.

As he walked back to his car, Boots experienced a single moment of buyer’s remorse. If he was wrong, wrong about everything, he’d be in jail by morning. On the other hand, if he was right, Jill Kelly would come knocking on his door, cigarette in hand. Not a bad gamble when he thought it out. Not bad at all.

B
oots was in his kitchen at ten o’clock on the following morning, cleaning the trap beneath the sink, when his father came into the room. By then, Boots had read all three New York newspapers and watched the news on every channel, broadcast and cable. No mention had been made of Artie Farrahan.

‘You were right,’ Andy Littlewood said. ‘She’s here.’

‘Jill Kelly?’

‘Cobalt eyes. Carries the map of Ireland on her face?’

‘That’s her.’ Boots looked down at his greasy hands. ‘Why don’t you park her in the living room, tell her I’ll be out in a minute?’

Boots soaped his hands before turning on the water in the sink. For several seconds, the drain ran freely, but then little jets of muddy water began to fill the basin. Boots cursed silently. It would take him the better part of the afternoon to pull the trap and clean it out.

Boots dried his hands, then went to meet his guest. He had a greeting all prepared, something light: ‘Hey, what’s a nice girl like you doing in Greenpoint?’ But the words stuck in his throat when Jill Kelly’s eyes dug into his. Boots held her gaze long enough to assure himself that he wasn’t intimidated, then laid a small ashtray on the end table to her left.

‘You wanna smoke, feel free.’

Boots Littlewood’s living room might have been designed by a decorator from the Salvation Army. Though he had the money to refurnish (and Libby Greenspan was eager to assist), Boots liked his home the way it was. The mismatched end tables, the glass coffee table with the chip in the corner, a worn sofa, a Queen Anne chair, a pair of recliners, one blue, one black – all arranged to face a fifty-inch, flat-screen television.

Boots took a seat on the couch, stationing himself as close to the ashtray as possible.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said. The statement was meant to challenge, but Jill’s gaze didn’t waver. Boots smiled. ‘So, how’s Artie?’

‘Farrahan claims that he doesn’t remember a thing.’ Kelly wore an off-white linen jacket over white slacks and a navy blouse just a shade darker than her eyes. She tugged on the jacket’s lapel. ‘I made a bet with Uncle Mike when you originally got jumped. I bet you wouldn’t take it lyin’ down.’

Boots assumed that Uncle Mike was Michael Shaw, Chief of Detectives. ‘I might’ve let it go, if they hadn’t marked me. But I’ll still take that as a compliment.’

‘Which is how it was meant.’ Jill fished in her pocket, finally pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. Taking her time, she lit up and drew the smoke into her lungs. ‘So, tell me, Boots, how did you know?’

Boots took a deep breath when Jill Kelly exhaled, even though she blew the smoke away from him. ‘You wouldn’t be wearing a wire, would you?’ he asked.

Kelly opened her jacket to reveal a Browning nine-millimeter tucked into a polymer holster on the left side of her belt. Designed to facilitate a quick draw, the holster had a backward rake that tilted the weapon toward her right hand.

‘You wanna search me?’

‘Desperately,’ Boots cheerfully admitted. When Jill laughed, he continued. ‘Now, the question you’re askin’, if I read you right, is how I knew I could get away with assaulting Artie Farrahan.’

‘And how you knew I’d show up.’

Boots leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees. ‘I expected Corcoran to come after me when I turned up Rajiv Visnawana. You know about Rajiv?’ He waited for Kelly to nod, then continued. ‘I was afraid Corcoran would have me transferred to eastern Queens or the northern Bronx, or convince IAB to open a file, or maybe even bring me up on charges, try to bust me back to patrol. But a physical attack? It never crossed my mind. I walked into that apartment as innocent as a baby.’

‘I’ll bet you grew up pretty quick.’

‘Not really. In fact, my first thought – when I could think again – was kind of admiring. I never figured Corcoran to have the balls. It took a while before I realized that attacking me was an act of desperation.’

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘The risks, Jill. I kept askin’ myself why Corcoran took all those risks when he could have operated behind the scenes. Keep in mind, anything might have gone wrong. They might’ve been seen, coming in or going out. Or I might’ve sensed the trap, or gotten to my gun and shot one of them. As it was, I managed to hurt Farrahan enough for the injury to show up later on.’

‘The limp? That was you?’

‘Yeah.’ Boots turned his head into the smoke when Jill ground her cigarette into the ashtray. The scent hit his brain like a pheromone. ‘What I finally decided was this. First, Corcoran didn’t use the job to teach me a lesson because he couldn’t. Second, he couldn’t because somebody was protecting me. Third, that somebody was Michael Shaw, Chief of Detectives, brother-in-law of Patrick Kelly. See, I already knew that Olmeda, Corcoran, Parker, Farrahan and your father served on a task force set up to investigate a serial killer. And I also knew that your father was shot to death a year later.’

Boots paused, waiting for Jill Kelly to flinch. She didn’t. ‘Corcoran might not have been swift enough to figure this out beforehand. Myself, I think he was a victim of his own ego. But I’m sure he understands by now. We’re locked out of the criminal justice system and neither of us can call the cops. The explanations would be too damning. That’s why Artie clammed up.’

Jill considered this for a moment, then said, ‘So, what do you want from me?’

‘What I want is Vinnie Palermo out of jail.’

‘In that case, you and Uncle Mike are in sync.’ Jill brushed her hair away from the side of her head. ‘I know it’s impolite to ask, but you wouldn’t happen to have a cup of coffee to spare? I’ve been up all night.’

This was exactly what Boots had been hoping for. He led Jill Kelly through the kitchen to a sink half-filled with greasy water. ‘Looks like we’ll have to go out. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry anyhow.’

The plan was to drive to a restaurant thirty minutes away in Park Slope, with the windows up and locked. But Jill Kelly disappointed him.

‘Forget the coffee; I have to get some sleep,’ she said as she returned to her chair. ‘I had a long talk with Uncle Mike before I came by. He gave me a list of items that I’m supposed to keep to myself, including his part in the play. But me, I like to lay things out. That’s why I’m a crappy detective.’ She paused long enough to light another cigarette. ‘So let me say this. I’m not Uncle Mike’s dog, though he does his best to keep me on a short leash.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the Kellys have been players in the NYPD for generations. Because Michael Shaw hitched a ride on the Kelly reputation when he married into the family. Because he now claims to be the family patriarch, and family patriarchs consider independence, especially on the part of females, an abomination unto God.’

Boots took a deep breath. The windows were shut and the room was filling with smoke. Maybe he could stretch the conversation out all afternoon. ‘Were you at home,’ he asked, ‘when your father was shot?’

Jill blinked, then grinned. ‘See, right there. You waited until I was distracted, then pushed one of my buttons. I’m not subtle enough for that. And the answer to your question is yes, I was there, in the house.’

‘And that’s why you came to my house? Your father?’ Boots crossed his legs. He was wearing a pair of ratty jeans and a white t-shirt washed so many times it was nearly transparent. His drain-clearing outfit. ‘I’m not tryin’ to confront you, Jill, but if you’re not workin’ for your uncle, you have to have another reason for knockin’ on my door. I want to know that reason.’ He smiled. ‘For obvious reasons.’

Jill Kelly folded her arms beneath her breasts. Boots had flipped the conversation on its head. She’d come expecting to put him through his paces and he was the one holding up the hoops. Watch him, she told herself, and don’t underestimate him. Never assume that you know what he’s thinking.

‘The investigation went on for eighteen months,’ she finally said. ‘Detectives grilled every felon my father arrested, going back two years. Every family member and every friend of the family was interviewed.’

‘I take it nothing turned up?’

‘Not a single viable suspect.’

‘But you’re somehow connecting his death to his work on the Lipstick Killer task force.’

Kelly remained quiet for a moment. Then she changed the subject. ‘We’ll have a new Mayor next year,’ she said, ‘because our current Mayor is term-limited. A new Mayor means a new Commissioner. Down at the Puzzle Palace, the Chiefs are drooling over the prospect. Think about it. These men have spent their entire working lives moving up the ladder. They passed the sergeants’, lieutenants’ and captains’ exams. They received advanced degrees from prominent universities. They were promoted from Captain, to Deputy Inspector, to Inspector, to Deputy Chief, to Chief. Boots, the only up from Chief is Commissioner.’

Andy Littlewood took that moment to enter the apartment. He slowed momentarily when he caught sight of Jill Kelly holding a cigarette. Andy hadn’t allowed a cigarette to be smoked in his own apartment since the day he quit fifteen years before. Finally, he came forward and laid a tray on the glass table in front of the couch. The tray bore a carafe of coffee, two mugs and several slices of carrot cake.

‘My son warned me,’ he said, his brogue thick enough to be peat, ‘not to call you a lass. But by all that’s holy, when I look into your eyes, I can find no other words.’