Ladykiller (19 page)

“I’ll save the bad news for later,” Blake told the morning meeting of his
task force. “Cops in East Rutherford found a body around dawn tentatively identified as Billy Ray Battle.”

“Where’s East Rutherford?” Safir asked.
“I never heard of East Rutherford,”Wise said.
“It’s in New Jersey,” Jamie said. “Where the Meadowlands sports

complex is.You know, Giants Stadium and all.”
“Oh, that East Rutherford,” Safir said.
“The one in Jersey,”Wise said.
“Was he shot in the right eye?” Dave asked. He didn’t bring up his

head to speak, merely kept glowering at the coffee cup that sat before
him on the table. He had been staring at that cup since they all had sat
down. Jamie glanced at him, then looked away, remembering.

“Stabbed in the eye with a knife,” Blake said. “The right eye. The
one where Dave, uh, zapped him. Large blade, like a kitchen carving
knife. No evidence of firearms damage on him. Severe damage to his
testicles, as if somebody had squeezed them.”
“Got him by the balls,” Safir said.
“The hearts and minds follow,”Wise said.
“We can’t say it was a Ladykiller homicide,” Blake said. “But because it was his right eye and because he is peripherally involved, well,
I want someone here to examine the body. Seems like the local Jersey
cops are in a snit over something to do with interstate flight policy. So
they aren’t being cooperative. Maybe you can charm them into access
to the body, Jamie.”

“None of the male detectives are as charming, Loo?” Jamie said.
“Safir and Wise can speak suburban.”
“Who me?” Safir said. “All that crabgrass gives me allergies. If it
was up to me, I’d pave over Central Park.”
“Put up a few parking garages,”Wise said. “Make it useful.”
“Billy Ray was seen with Ace yesterday in the Foxy Lady,” Dave
said. “There’s got to be a connection.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Blake shrugged. “Worth Jamie taking a
good look. No luck finding Ace?”
“Martino and Blitzer say he was seen running into the Times
Square subway station,” Dave said. “He acted like he was being chased.
He knocked over an old bag lady’s shopping cart. The bag lady was
afraid of cops, but a transit cop in the station says he saw someone
who resembled Ace. He couldn’t be sure, though.”
Blake clapped his hands onto the table. “Folks, we’re getting
nowhere here.”
“The link is the West Side Crisis Center,” Dave insisted. “Listen,
Ace said all the victims were clients there.Trouble is, the center’s files
show no sign of the victims. Not even under fake names, as far as we
can tell.”
“Nothing matched,” Jamie added.
“If we find Ace, it will fall into place,” Dave said.
“Will it, Dave?” Blake said. “Will it? We’ve been down too many
blind alleys.” He was uncharacteristically angry, almost shouting.
“We’re getting absolutely nowhere. Jesus.” He stopped himself, then
rubbed his temples with his fingers.
“What’s the bad news, Loo?” Jamie asked softly.
“Mancuso,” Blake said. “He’s given us till the end of this week.Today is Monday. If we haven’t collared the perp — the right one this
time — the task force is disbanded. And that will have bad consequences for a lot of people in this room.” He scanned their faces and
locked his gaze on Dave.
“Me, I’ll retire,” Safir said.
“Yeah, time to hang it up,”Wise said.
Dave stood and left the room without a word. The group sat in
silence. Jamie scraped her chair back and followed him.
She caught him as he was heading out the front. “Dave, about the
other night —”
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Dave said, not looking at her. “I mean it but
—”
“No. Don’t. Forget that.What I want to say is, you can count on
me to help you with this case.Together we can nail this asshole.”
Dave looked up and gave her a tight smile. “Sure we can.”
“Where are you going?”
“The West Side Crisis Center.”

The first morning counseling session behind her, Nita fed the fish.The
flakes drifted in equal portions all over the tank. No fish went hungry.
They didn’t fight over the manna.They were smooth and beautiful.

Once she disposed of Ace, she could start over. Obviously, removing any more clients of the crisis center was too dangerous. And
just as obviously, shooting them in the right eye was too much of a signature. In the heart, or anywhere else in the head would have to do,
although she regretted the loss of the right eye as a target. It had such
poetry.

Dave opened the heavy door of the crisis center. Inside, the usual bedlam reigned. The seedy, wild-eyed man ran up to Dave once more.
“What planet are you from?”

“Reuben lives on another planet now.With all the early saints. A
lot of the early saints were Jewish.”
“Were you a client of Reuben?”
“Hell, no. He used to call me crazy. Ha-ha. If he was so great,
how come he’s dead?” The man roared. “Ever ask yourself that?”
Megan hurried over. “Dave, what’s going on?”
“Talking to this man.”
“Well, have you?” the man bellowed.
“Why?” Megan said.
“Two items on my agenda.The first is a chat with Dr. Solomon,”
Dave said.
“Guess what?” the man proclaimed with a cackle. “She’s real
sweet on you.”
“What’s the second item?”
“An invitation to dinner.” Dave smiled. “Not at my place this
time. And we won’t talk about Nita.We’ll just have a nice meal.”
Megan looked up into his eyes. She briefly touched his shoulder.
She could feel the heat. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. Pick you up at seven?”
“All right,” Megan said. “I don’t have to work the hotline tomorrow night. But please, if you see Nita, don’t —”
Dave put a finger to her lips. “I won’t say a word.” He smiled and
went upstairs.

Rose disturbed Nita’s reverie. “Dr. Solomon wishes to see you, dear.
It’s must be important.” She seemed worried.
“What’s the matter, Rose?”
“That detective is here again. Dr. Solomon is in quite a state.”
Rose waved vaguely. “Will this ever end?”
Nita swallowed hard and stalked into Solomon’s office. He
slumped behind his desk, as if he’d been deboned. Dillon sat upright
in the chair opposite him, brimming with grim force.
“Nita, Detective Dillon has a proposal that, well, I frankly need
your input on,” Dr. Solomon said. “Apparently, the investigation to
find Reuben’s killer hasn’t exactly progressed to the point of satisfaction. And, well —”
“What do you want with us now, detective?” Nita asked.
“Why don’t you sit down, Nita?” Dave said.
“I prefer to stand, thank you very much.Well?”
“Certain aspects of this case don’t add up,” Dave said. “We have
established links between the first four Ladykiller victims and the crisis center. And yet no record exists of their ever being here. The files
show no one close to them in age, appearance, what have you. That’s
odd. I’d say someone yanked their files.”
“What are you driving at?” Nita asked.
“Do any clients have access to the area where the files are kept,
Nita?”
“Only crisis center professionals are allowed access to the files,”
Nita said.
“Yes, but are any clients allowed near the filing cabinets where
they are kept?”
“We have some clients who help out around the office. The less
seriously disturbed, of course.”
“Another curious thing is that the victims were all Reuben’s. At
least, that’s what Ace said.” Dave folded his arms. “Now, the victims
were said to be very enthusiastic about the person they saw here.
That’s what their loved ones and friends told us. Trouble is, Reuben
was not known around here as someone to inspire much fervor
among his clients. Quite the contrary.”
“How dare you,” Nita said angrily. “Reuben was dedicated. He
worked hard.You’re talking to the wrong people.”
“Um, I have to corroborate the detective’s assertion, Nita,” Dr.
Solomon said apologetically.
“At long last, detective,” Nita said, her voice cold, “please tell me
what you are getting at.”
“I want to interview your clients,” Dave said.
“What did you say?”
“You have some seriously disturbed people here,” Dave said. “You
admit that some could have gotten near the filing cabinets. Perhaps the
files contained clues to who the killer is. The files might explain the
relationship that Reuben had with these clients — which I frankly
don’t understand — and that might shed even more light on who our
perpetrator is.”
“Never,” Nita said.
“Nita, aren’t we being a little hasty?” Dr. Solomon said.
“Never in a million years,” Nita said. “Those clients trust us.
We’re not going to set them up for another of the detective’s fishing
expeditions, endangering their therapy.”
Dave jumped to his feet. “Endangering their therapy? What about
the lives this weirdo has snuffed out? What about the innocent people
he is going to kill if we don’t stop him?”
“Never,” Nita told him. “Never, never, never.”
“The odds are that one of your loonies is the killer,” Dave thundered back at her.
Nita shouted loud enough to echo through the building. “The
odds are that you can’t do your job right and are recklessly trying to
find someone to pin the blame on to save your ass.”
Dave shook with rage.The cords stood out on his neck. “I can get
a court order,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You do that,” Nita shot back. “We’ll fight it in any courtroom
you want.”
“Oh, my,” Dr. Solomon said. “We can’t afford a legal battle, Nita.
Oh, my.”
“We don’t need to afford it,” Nita said. “I know a good lawyer
who will work for nothing to tie them up in knots for weeks, months,
years.Watch me do it.”
Dave marched out of the office.The social workers stared at him.
Megan was nowhere to be seen.
Nita had called his bluff. He didn’t have the time to wage a court
fight. And even if there was more time, Mancuso would never go for
it. He had to apply some other pressure to gain quick compliance.
Another thought nagged him: At a time like this, was it wise to
romance Megan?
It didn’t matter. He needed to. That part of his life was separate
and precious.
At the pay phone outside the center, he stabbed out Jimmy Conlon’s number.

“Incredible,” Jimmy Conlon said as he read the newspaper story for
the fifth time. “In-fucking-credible.” It was a front-page story by Laird
Caruthers on the lack of progress in the Ladykiller investigation: most
of it regurgitated clips from stories Jimmy had written. To freshen it
up, there were only three new quotes, saying the obvious.

Then it got worse. Laird was lounging at his desk, which was two
away from Jimmy’s, when Chip traipsed up.
“Great work on the Ladykiller piece,” Chip told him. “Keep that
stuff coming.”
“The most original reporting I’ve read all year,” Jimmy called to
them.They ignored him.
“Thanks, Chip,” Laird said with the practiced boyish grin that had
ingratiated him to elders his entire life.
After Chip went away, Jimmy approached Laird. “Anything I can
do for you on this story? Other than give you more of my clips to
rewrite, that is.”
Laird’s grin took on the mean edge of a poker player about to lay
out his winning hand. “Just go on being you, champ.”
“Uh-huh. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make Chip and those assholes love you.”
Laird smirked. “I don’t call them assholes, for one thing.”
“I hear they’re grooming you for the Washington bureau.”
Jimmy’s arm swept toward Chip’s office. “How do you do it?”
“Hard work, champ.”
“I can see that. Say, do you even know any cops?”
“Some reporters know cops a little too well.They actually think
they are cops.That stops them from digging hard. Not mentioning any
names, of course.”
Jimmy balled his fists against his elbows. “You have no idea what
you’re talking about. I grew up with guys who became cops. Where
did you grow up?” He added sardonically, “Laird?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that I grew up.”
Verbally outgunned, Jimmy was grateful when his phone rang.
Glowering at Laird, he moved back to his desk and unholstered the
receiver.
“I got something for you,” Dave said. “Big.”
Jimmy felt the insistent heat at his temples. “What?” He grabbed
for a pen and notepad.
“All the victims were definitely clients at the West Side Crisis
Center. A source told us they were Reuben Silver’s. Problem is that
we can’t find files on any of them.We suspect that the killer is one of
the clients. Looks like whoever it was removed the files from the cabinet. We’re betting that the files contain clues to the killer’s identity.
We want to start interrogating the clients.”
“But the caseworkers don’t want you to, right?”
“Ta-da. Remember how, after Reuben Silver died, they used this
woman as a spokesperson? Nita Bergstrom?”
“Yeah. A real looker, in a sort of frosty way.” Jimmy scribbled
madly.
“She really runs the place,” Dave said. Jimmy could hear the traffic behind him. Pay phone, as usual. “On paper the chief is this Dr.
Solomon. He’s a real space cadet.”
“So I better talk to Bergstrom,” Jimmy said.
“Don’t say I sent you.”
“She can stonewall you in court, no matter what we print.”
“It’ll be tougher against public outrage that she’s sheltering the
Ladykiller. This should greatly accelerate the process.” Dave added,
“Run tomorrow morning?”
“No. I better be in early for this. I’ll be lucky to get to see
this Bergstrom woman today. I remember what a bitch she was. She’ll
try to put me off too, no doubt. I don’t want to tell Chip what I’m
doing or he’ll give the story to his favorite. How about tonight at
McSorley’s?”
“Nope. Gotta visit my mother. Then go home and spend some
quality time with the cat. How about tomorrow night? Early, though.
I got a date.”
“With the —”
“Yeah, with her. Now go win a Pulitzer.” Dave hung up.
Jimmy called the crisis center and asked for Nita, making sure to
identify himself as a reporter. A gay-sounding fellow named Tim, who
cupped his hand over the phone when soliciting Nita’s availability,
came back to say she was in conference and could he take Jimmy’s
number.
Jimmy gave it, knowing she wouldn’t vouchsafe the courtesy of a
reply.With a lead as sensitive as this, you followed polite protocols at
the outset.Then you barged in uninvited.
Laird, feet up on desk, was chortling over the phone to an old
school chum and planning a weekend outing to the Cape.
Jimmy imagined him in a gun sight. “Champ,” he said.

Finesse, who leaned against a grafitti-blotched wall, served up a
rich laugh. “Name me one time you did one thing for me.”
“I’m your friend. Please, Finesse. I got to get out of this town.
I’m dead meat if I don’t.”
“You’re tellin’ me you’re dead meat,” Finesse said. “Jackie Why
been searchin’ all over for you.You owe him a fortune, is how I hear it.”
Ace smacked his forehead. “Jackie Why. I forgot that shit.”
“You are crazy, boy.You forget about a debt you owe Jackie Why,
you done forgot your brains.Who else is after your sorry ass? I know
it ain’t the police.”
“That’s a long story,”Ace said. “I need money for a bus. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Afraid you end up like Billy Ray Battle?”
“What?”
Finesse cocked his head to the side. “You ain’t heard? You on the
wicked weed again? Everybody on the Deuce knows about old Billy
Ray.”
“What happened?”
“Cracker got hisself killed, is what happened. Somebody stuck a
knife in his eye, dumped him over in Jersey.”
“A knife,” Ace said hollowly. “In Jersey.”
“Yes, indeed.There an echo around here?”
Ace spun away and limped along the Deuce, his head bent over,
watching the cracks on the sidewalk flip past like a TV picture with the
vertical hold gone wrong. God, it hurt to walk, but he had to keep
moving. He had wanted to try Billy Ray for money.That was out.
In the gaudy dimness of the Foxy Lady,Tony Topnut was no more
helpful than a dead Billy Ray. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Only a little money. I’ll repay it. Honest. I’m good for it.
Honest.”
“Go piss up a rope, Ace,” Tony said. The exploding Hawaian
volcanoes on his shirt resembled penises. Hula girls greeted the lava
joyously. “When Jackie Why gets done with you, the only thing you’ll
be good for is piloting a pine box.”
“I got to get out of town.”
“Tough shit,”Tony Topnut said.
Ace said nothing. A customer called out to Tony Topnut with a
question about when the skin was coming on. After Tony moved down
the bar to talk to him,Ace hit the open lever on the cash register.The
till popped open. He grabbed a fistful of cash, reaching underneath
the cash tray where the big bills were kept. As Tony Topnut yelled, Ace
bolted out of the bar. A couple of stools went flying when he bumped
into them. His leg didn’t even hurt as he ran for his life into the daylight of the Deuce.

Mrs. Corrigan sat beside her, pretending to read a thick paperback with a picture on the cover of a bosomy Southern belle in the
arms of a Rhett Butler clone. A prime-time cop show flickered on the
huge screen of the Sony that Dave had bought his mother once for her
birthday — a gift she never had thanked him for.

“Jimmy Conlon’s mother came by to check on me today,” his
mother said. “Said you were taken up with some girl.”
“I told you about her, Ma. Megan.”
“Catholic?”
“No, Ma.”
“But Irish?”
“Sort of, Ma.”
“You going to marry this girl?”
Dave considered. “Maybe. I am crazy about her.That’s for sure.”
“Not Catholic,” his mother said. “That woman of your father’s
wasn’t Catholic, either. There’s one who deserves to burn in hell.
Break up a man’s family.”
“Megan is a nice girl, Ma,” Dave said. “Very smart.”
His mother frowned deeper. “The day a Dillon man gets himself
a good woman is the day I’ll never see.”
“Dad got you, Ma.”
Mrs. Corrigan did her best to stifle a titter.
“I’m glad I’m seeing you lately,” his mother said with a sniff. “For
a change. I ought to go to the hospital more often.”
“Ma, I swear.When this case is over — and I feel it’s going to be
real soon — I’ll be here more.”
“If I had a nickel for every time I heard your father say that, I’d be a
rich woman.And you know who he spent all his money on, don’t you?”