Footsteps of the Hawk (15 page)

He turned his back on me, walked away. He was back in a minute, said "Come in," and hit a buzzer to release the inner door.

"Last one on the left," he told me.

Fortunato's office was bigger than the whole reception area, a corner spot with two exposures through large windows. He was sitting behind his desk, a kidney–shaped monster—its left lobe held three separate telephone mini–consoles—the right had a smoked–plastic stack of trays loaded with various documents. The broad expanse in the middle was empty, gleaming like it had just been polished. I walked in, took the middle of three identical leather chairs facing the desk.

"You're Burke?" he said by way of greeting.

"Yes."

Fortunato leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He didn't ask for identification, didn't offer to shake hands. He reached into one of the plastic stacked trays, extracted a white envelope, held it in his hand for a few seconds. Then he slid it across the slick surface toward me. I caught it, pocketed it without looking inside.

"You have any questions?" he asked.

"The way I understand it, this guy was dropped behind some DNA fingerprinting, right?"

"That was one of the factors," he said cautiously. "There were others."

"So what's his play on appeal? How do you get around that?"

"An appeal isn't usually about the evidence," he said smoothly. "It's about the law, not the facts. Let's say the police find the murder weapon in the trunk of a guy's car. But let's say it was a bad search—no warrant, no probable cause. They can't use it in court, understand?"

"Yeah, I do. But they wouldn't need a warrant to take a blood sample."

"It's all in how you look at the evidence," he said. "The DNA…Wait a minute, are you saying they got DNA samples from the New York case?"

"Well…yeah, I guess so. I mean, I knew they had it in Jersey, and I thought—"

"There was no DNA taken from the body on University Place," he said flatly.

"None at all? How could that be?"

"Look, maybe you don't have all the facts here," he said, ticking off the points on his fingers. "One, the DNA they got in Jersey was a
tissue
sample, understand? From fingernail scrapings—the woman scratched, she fought hard. There were fragments of skin under her nails. Two, the woman in New York, the one on University Place? Her fingernails were smooth, like she just had a manicure. Nothing under them at all. Three, there was no sperm in the body."

"You telling me they found
different
DNA in the other bodies?"

"There were three bodies," Fortunato said, ticking them off on his fingers, one–two–three. His manicure was perfect. "Three murders," he said. "And
all
of them in New York. And the assault, the one in Jersey—I already explained that one, right? The woman on University Place—there was no sperm—they never made a match. The other two—the other two murders, I mean—there was no sperm either."

"You sure that's right? No sperm at all? Sometimes, a guy isn't a secretor…"

"I know that," he said, looking up sharply. "No sperm, period—
that's
what they found. And they didn't find any in the other two, the ones that happened after he was in custody."

"So let's say he didn't do the last two—hell, that would make sense. He was inside, right? But there's no question about the first pair."

"One of them," Fortunato corrected. "The one that lived. That'll stand up, no question. But the woman on University Place, he may have been in her apartment, he may have fucked her a couple of times—hell, he
admits
all of that—but there's no real hard evidence that he
killed
her."

"Sounds like a dead loser to me," I said. "What's the point? Without proof that the ME pulled the red ribbon out of the other bodies—and you gotta admit,
that
sounds ridiculous—you got nothing."

Fortunato shrugged, watching my face. "Sometimes," he said, "you take a case as a favor. Even if it doesn't look good. You never know what can happen…"

"Okay," I said. It was like I'd thought—if Fortunato had a scheme, it didn't have anything to do with the law books.

He reached behind him to where a shelf was built in below the window line, brought out a small wood humidor. He reached inside, took out a long dark cigar. "You mind?" he asked.

I shook my head. Shook it again when he turned the humidor in my direction, offering me one, He clipped the end of the cigar with a little silver guillotine, flicked a wafer–thin lighter into flame. He made a ceremony out of it, rolling the cigar in his lips, making sure it was fully lit. He finally got it going to his satisfaction, leaned back in his chair.

"You're an interesting man," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"People talk," I told him. "I don't."

"I understand. You have a very strong reputation…in some circles."

"And your point is…?"

"My point is that this job, it doesn't have anything to do with family business. You following me?"

"Sure,"

"Julio used to speak well of you," he said. I could feel his eyes through the cigar smoke.

"Used to?"

"He's dead," Fortunato said. "You didn't know?"

"How would I know? Was it in the papers?"

"Just a little squib," he said. "Old man sitting on a bench just off the water by La Guardia. Watching the planes come in, it looked like. Only his neck was broken."

I gave out a short grunt of surprise, with a question mark at the end.

"The cops have it down as Unsolved," Fortunato answered. "They never made an arrest."

"You want me to look into it?" I asked, flat–faced.

"No, that's okay," he replied. "We know who did it."

"Then you're telling me because…?"

"I just thought you'd be interested. I know you were tight with the old man once."

"Inside I was. I didn't see much of him once I was out."

He nodded as if that made sense. "Your record…it's long, but it's old. You ever think of going for a Certificate of Release from Civil Disabilities?"

"What's that?"

"It's like a pardon. Not really a pardon…I mean, you still have your record, but you can do things you couldn't do before."

"Like what?"

"Well, you could vote. Open certain kinds of businesses…he said, the sly hint of suggestion in his voice.

Telling me he knew about me owning a piece of Frankie? "How much does it cost?" I asked him, no sign of real interest on my face.

"Well, that depends. Different lawyers charge different rates. You know that. Me, I could get it done. Guaranteed."

"How much?" I asked again.

"I could do it as a favor. No charge."

"That's too high a price," I told him.

He took another hit off the cigar, blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. "The offer's still open," he said. "You change your mind, let me know. Anytime."

"I'll do that," I told him.

O
n the way back to my office, I tried to put it together. Fortunato as much as told me he knew I was involved in Julio's murder. Was he threatening me, or offering me a way out?

I wasn't afraid of Fortunato. Inside his pretty office, he was strong and confident, but he was only a messenger—he couldn't deliver the payload. A mob lawyer might get involved with homicide for money, might even set it up, but he wouldn't do the work himself. Guys like that, they stay between the lines, trying to widen them by pushing from the inside.

But Julio…it was a long time ago. A family quarrel the newspapers called a Mob War. One side hired Wesley, and Wesley got it done, delivering the bodies like he always did. But then Julio's crew stiffed Wesley on the fee, and Wesley starting taking them out, one at a time. Julio, the old alligator, had been screaming for Wesley's blood—even promising me the earth if I could lure the ice–man into a trap. But it was Julio who got trapped…by a flame–haired witch named Strega who licked her lips as she watched him die.

What was Fortunato telling me? Wesley was a shooter—the best there ever was. But Julio had died of a broken neck. Just like one of those freaks in the Bronx house of beasts.

I
got back to my car and headed downtown. I left the West Side Highway at Chambers Street, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge. I took the on–ramp before the span. It was the tail end of rush hour, but the bridge was clogged. I looked ahead, saw one of those orange signs: LEFT LANE ENDS 500 YARDS. I was in that lane, and I wasn't getting much play from the middle lane, so merging right wasn't all that easy. I didn't get worked up about it—I wasn't in a hurry.

In some cities, the citizens have actually mastered the art of staggered lane merging—one from the right, one from the left, until it's all done. It'll never happen here—if you're in the lane that needs to merge you don't hope for courtesy, you watch for weakness.

A tired old black Buick finally came up on my right, laboring and sputtering along, an elderly Hasid at the wheel. Everybody was cutting him off, jumping ahead of him—he was acting so unaggressive he became fair game. Just before the left lane ended, I tapped my brakes to let him pull ahead of me, then slipped in behind. He chugged on ahead, reaching his left arm out the window to wave a thank–you to me. It felt good. I
like
that kind of stuff. If motherfuckers would just let me be, I swear I would be a polite, respectful man.

Then I heard the angry blare of a horn, glanced in the mirror. A white Nissan sedan had been behind me, but it got pinched off when I let that other guy in.

So what? I worked the middle lane for a piece, saw my opening, and rolled once more to the right, setting up for the exit to the BQE. The white Nissan pulled up on my left, running parallel. The driver and the two in the back seat were black males—there was a black woman in the front passenger seat. She rolled down her window. I hit the switch to drop mine too.

She leaned out her window, screamed "You fucking Jew bastard!" at me just as the Nissan pulled away, obviously concluding she'd been the victim of still another Zionist plot.

I thought about how much fun it would be to lock her in a room with old Cline–as–in–Patsy.

After I completed all the necessary loops, I climbed onto the BQE, heading for Queens. As I passed the Flushing Avenue exit I spotted a congenital defective driving a Cadillac in the left lane. Driving slow. Posting up so everyone had to pass in the middle lane and then cut back in. Nobody did it calmly—some of them shot the finger, others waved fists. One cut back in so close the Cadillac had to stand on its brakes.

I dialed my mind to calm, waited for my shot, then swept around the fat Cadillac. I got back into the left lane and settled in, punched the button for the all–news station, half–listened as I drove. The news came out in little blips:

Down South, another anti–abortion maniac gunned down a doctor going into a clinic. An equally freakish misfit killed two nurses and a secretary somewhere in New England. Good thing there's no waiting period for buying a handgun—makes it so much easier to act on impulse.

A nine–year–old girl writes an essay for school. "Daddy Raped Me" it was called. She gets an A on her paper—nothing else. Months later, the scumbag gets himself arrested for some other stuff—turns out he has AIDS. Some group promises a protest.

Another baby killed in another crossfire. The only difference between certain neighborhoods in this city and Bosnia is that we're better armed here.

The New York weather report: cold and vicious.

I switched to FM, punched the oldies station. They were playing music from the '70s, as impossible as that sounds.

I slammed in the one sure cure: a Judy Henske tape. That broad's got enough rich, dark juice for a grape arbor, every word dripping with promise. I had a scheme to meet her in person, years ago. It worked out the same as most of my schemes.

Traffic crawled once we got over the Kosciusko Bridge—the halfass government was doing something stupid to the highway again. I grabbed the LIE eastbound, still in no hurry. Just before the Elmhurst Tanks, I spotted a downed Lincoln Continental in the right lane. I wasn't the first to see it—one of the vulture vans that cruise the city expressways looking for crippled cars was already on the scene. A pro team was at work—one guy had a hydraulic jack under the back wheels while his partner had popped the hood. Give them a half–hour, they'd turn a wounded car into a corpse.

I exited at Woodhaven Boulevard and worked my way toward Forest Park. I found a quiet spot. Pulled over to a roadside pay phone and punched a number in.

"What?" came the rust–bucket greeting.

"You been looking for me?" I asked.

"ID me something," the voice demanded.

"Baby Pete," I said.

"More."

"I found him. Where you said he couldn't be."

Baby Pete. Big Peter's grandson. Kidnapped, held for ransom. Big Peter never went near the Law. Paid in full. Never got the boy back. After that, he reached out for me. I found the little kid. In the basement of Big Peter's next–in–line. Found his ashes and a few bone fragments—the furnace hadn't finished its work. The next–inline was impatient, but he needed a war chest before he made his move. Big Peter hadn't called the Law about that one either.

"Ask the question again?"

"You looking for me?"

"If I wanted to find you, I would," he said softly. "I know how to do that."

"Yeah. That's what I figured. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have some problem—"

"With you?" he interrupted.

"Yeah. Some strange stuff is happening. And I heard a name today…."

"Say it."

"Julio."

"Oh." The line was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, "Come see me."

"Where?"

"At the house."

"When?"

"Now. I'll wait."

"Twenty minutes," I told him, and hung up.

T
he house was a simple wood–frame two–story in Ozone Park. Only the chain–link fence looked serious. The gypsy cab dropped me off in front. I walked around to the side of the house and rang the bell.