Victims (20 page)

“Yes, well, okay, but I’d like to ask you something, Detective Torres. How come—why should Frankie here and me be working for you? I mean, what it comes down to, you’re not our C.O. Or anything.”

Mike admired her control. He knew that she’d been going long hours without a break; that she’d had to deal with a great deal of departmental brass and interference.

Miranda said, “That’s just the way it is, Officer.”

“Yeah? Well maybe and maybe not. Like, I’d like to talk to a—a sergeant, at least. I mean, I’m not sure what the hell authority
you
have.”

“All right, fine. Go and knock on the door to the interrogation room. Look in there now. You see that man, in the dark suit, with the striped tie? You ask him. He is Inspector Williams of the Queens Homicide Squad. Technically, we are all assigned to him. So, go ahead, be my guest. Talk to the boss-of-us-all.”

The patrolman looked into the room, then looked at his partner. “Hey, no hard feelings, you know? I’m just asking what the score is. I mean, I don’t know you or nothing, so I’m not sure how come you get to tell us...”

“Because it is my case. My partner and I caught the case Wednesday night. So everything passes through our hands. Including your report. Yes?”

“Many of these guys give you a hard time?” Stein asked her.

“This? This is not hard time. It’s no big deal. They did a good job. They brought back the murder weapon. This one policeman, he’s just stretching and flexing a little. This does not bother me a little bit.”

She smiled: a what-the-hell’s-the-difference-boys-will-be-boys, and that’s what these two are, a pair of boys. They were no more than three or four years younger than Miranda. With her smooth, miraculously glowing skin and tall lithe body, her grace and quiet presence, she seemed, to Stein, to be as untouched by what she had experienced as a child. Except, sometimes, fleetingly, there was a dark, flat deadness at the center of her eyes, compounded of sadness, the experience of terrible things seen and understood and accepted. He had caught that emptiness once or twice, had caught her off guard. Thought he had seen into the heart of Miranda, but could not be sure. Not yet. She was still, to him, a mystery.

“That A.D.A. wants to talk with you, Mr. Stein. He has a different view of your rights to confidentiality. He wants you to present him with your videotape.”

Stein glanced into the interrogation room and smiled. “That little guy with the mustache? What happened, he was absent when they gave the lecture about the sanctity of the journalistic world?”

“This is his very first case. He’s been with the D.A.’s office for nearly two years. Failed his boards the first time, so he’s been working as a law clerk. Up until last week. Now he’s for really and truly a prosecutor.”

“You think
he’s
gonna see this case through? Looks like it’s kinda heavy. You got everybody here but the Mayor.”

“The Mayor is in Italy, but he’s on top of everything.”

“As always.”

The door to the interrogation room burst open and Mr. “Sonny” Waters, twenty-nine years old, five foot five inches tall, overwhelmed by a heavy head of thick curly black hair, weighed down by a huge dark mustache which dropped over his mouth and chin, stormed into the squad room. He glanced around, then motioned with a jerk of his head to Miranda.

“Sir?”

“Listen, that guy in there is jerking me off or something,” he said. “I studied Spanish not only in high school and college, but I took an intensive conversational course at Berlitz. And, I spent three weeks in Spain with no trouble at all being understood. And—” he did something with his mouth, it was hard to tell what, maybe a smile, maybe a grimace, the mustache hid whatever it was—“and I had a Spanish-speaking lady, and we had no trouble at all understanding each other. You know what I’m saying?”

“Oh, yes. I understand English almost perfectly,” Miranda said.

The short district attorney glared at her for a moment, then relaxed. “Okay, okay. So what’s the story with this guy in there? I ask him questions he stares at me and says ‘Huh?’ Like he doesn’t understand. He giving me a hard time, is that it?”

“Yes. That is it. There is nothing
personal
involved, Mr. Waters. You know, he’s been under a great deal of pressure. In Miami he’s been in custody for several days, and he’s exhausted. The Miami authorities didn’t want to give him up and—”

“They thought their bullshit cocaine bust was heavier than our quad murder? That the way they thought? Goddamn redneck cracker jerk-offs.” He glanced at Stein. “Hey. Wait a minute. I know you. You’re Mike Stein. The columnist, journalist, right?”

Stein played Miranda’s game. He smiled and spoke in a pleasantly neutral tone. “Writer. Journalist, columnist, novelist, reporter—whatever. As long as they put my name on the check and the check doesn’t bounce, I don’t care what they call me. And you are Mr. Waters, of the Queens District Attorney’s Office? Mr. Sonny Waters?”

Waters took Stein’s offered hand for a quick shake, squinted his round beige eyes and pointed an index finger at Mike.

“You got some information we need. That is crucial to the prosecution of that little jerk-off in there. It would be much easier on you if you would just give us the name of your cameraman—whatever you call a guy who shoots video, your videoman?—and let us get him before the grand jury. Otherwise, we can’t present the tape of the murder of Anna Grace. So? So? We’re all in this together. And remember, one hand helps the other, right? Right?”

Mike Stein started to laugh. His head fell back and then down to his chest and he turned his back on the district attorney, waved him off, didn’t watch as the furious man stormed across the office, stopped and issued some sort of dire warning in his general direction.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Miranda said softy. “Little man, large ego.”

Mike wrapped his arm around Miranda’s shoulders and squeezed. His face was flushed and his eyes were tearing.

“I know. I know. But, Jesus. A grown man answering to the name ‘Sonny.’ This little...jerk-off. Oh, God!”

“You seem very happy, Mr. Stein. Didn’t you run into your colleagues at the press briefing downstairs? I think they are all very angry with you. They have had no luck at all in trying to interview witnesses. No one will open a door. They want to know why you had early access
and
what you did to the good people of Barclay Street to make them so hostile to the press.”

“Not what I’ve
done,
Miranda. What I am
going to do.
My first article of the series will be published Monday: ‘The Girl Who Was Murdered Twice.’ Photos of all the good folk—with their own tag line under each picture. Right from their own mouths. Their own hearts. You want to know what I’m high on? A deal, kiddo. My agent called me this morning. Jesus, I haven’t heard this kind of money in ten years. A book contract, magazine and film tie-in. There’s still a lot of big money out there; I haven’t had a crack at in a long time. Hey. Why the stare? Don’t shake your head, you’re making a judgment, right now. What?”

“No. No judgment. I am curious, do you want to know anything about our suspect in there? Our confessed murderer? Or are you really not interested in him?”

“I got all I need to know about him at the briefing. I told you at the very beginning,
he
isn’t what interests me. He’s what he is: a bum, a killer for whatever reason. He knows what he is. The good people of Barclay Street—now, that’s different. They don’t know what they are.”

“And you are going to tell them.”

“You got it, kid. I’m going to let them, and the rest of the world, get a good look at them. And for my book—I’ve got a fast six months to put it together—I’m going to get all the ‘experts’ in on it. The shrinks, the criminologists, the urbanologists, the specialists—gonna give them all a chance to explain why the good people of Barclay Street let Anna Grace bleed to death. Why not one of them lifted a finger to help.”

Miranda turned away.

“Hey, listen. You know what they’re doing, these good people? They’re getting together and forming a committee. They’ve hired a lawyer. To try and stop publication of my articles. To try and sue my publishers. They’ve had a few meetings. Guess who’s the organizer.”

“Mr. Harry Lamont?” she asked.

“You got it. What are you, a detective or something? How come you’re so smart? Hey, listen, Miranda, whadda ya think Mr. Mera in there was doing with Sonny, the Spanish-speaking district attorney from Berlitz?”

Miranda smiled. “Jerking him off, of course. You heard Mr. Waters. He was absolutely right.”

She answered the phone. “Detective Torres. Yes. All right, send him up. Wait, spell his name please. Enrique
Firenze
—no, I don’t know him. Okay, thank you, Lieutenant.” And then to Mike Stein, “Will you excuse me, please. I have to take care of this.”

He waited, then smiled. “Okay, I’ll call you later today, Miranda. We’ll exchange information.”

A well-dressed, handsome middle-aged man stood in the doorway to the squad room.

Miranda went over and extended her hand.

“Mr. Firenze? I am Detective Miranda Torres. How do you do?”

“Señorita.” He began to speak Spanish, and Miranda held up her hand.

“English, please.” She indicated the uniformed patrolmen, the captain and her partner, who had just come from the interrogation room.

He had an Old World elegance, a courtly, careful manner of speaking. “I am here to represent Mr. Mera. I understand that he had Legal Aid representation down in Miami and that in the presence of this assigned attorney he made certain statements. I would like to meet with Mr. Mera, to have an opportunity to speak with him, to go over any statements he has made regarding—” he spread his hands widely—“anything.”

A.D.A. Waters returned and, upon being introduced to Mr. Firenze, began to speak in Spanish.

“Ah, Mr. Waters, in deference to your colleagues, I think it would be best if we converse strictly in English, yes?”

Waters glared around the room suspiciously. “Whatever. You got quite a client in there. Anybody tell you about the tape we got? Plead the guy, Counselor. Plead him and save the city money.”

“Tape? What tape do you mean?”

Captain O’Connor, Detective Dunphy and Torres all began to speak at once. They surrounded the fiery district attorney and swept him into the captain’s office for a briefing. Information he needed to have—updating. They were all talking at once when the commotion burst in on them. One of the patrolmen, the older one, the wiser one, the tougher one, had gone pale.

“Hey, Torres. You better come quick. Your killer is going nuts! He attacked his attorney.”

By the time Miranda was able to enter the interrogation room, Mera was handcuffed and being held by the younger patrolman with assistance from two homicide detectives. Mr. Firenze was being helped to his feet and escorted from the room by Captain O’Connor and Detective Dunphy. She caught a quick glimpse of the blood that was streaming down the side of his flushed, well-shaven face. He seemed concerned about the rip in the trousers of his expensive suit. He shouted, his voice high-pitched with emotion, “Scum. You should not have done that! You should not have done that!”

It was all in Spanish now.

Mera said, “Who sent him here? Don’t let them come near me. You people are supposed to protect me. What the hell is wrong with you? You want me to make this easy on you? You want me to cooperate, take a guilty plea? You want me to tell you about
all
of the murders, then you take care of me. You got that? Take care of me.”

One of the homicide detectives understood enough Spanish to catch the words “all of the murders.” For the rest, he depended on Miranda Torres, who said, “Okay, let me talk to him. Tape it, I’ll translate from the tape later.

“You want to talk quietly with me, Mr. Mera? I’ll have the cuffs taken off, if you want to talk quietly. Otherwise, well, you sit here and quiet down by yourself. Your choice.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk. Good, get them off. Listen, that was his own fault. Who sent him? You got any idea who sent him here? You know who he is?”

“No. I have no idea.”

“Yeah? You know. He gets plenty, that bum. He makes a lot of money. I don’t want him or any of them near me, you got that?”

“Yes. But I don’t understand. Who is Firenze? He looks like a lot of money to me. You don’t know who sent him?”

“I didn’t say that, I...” Mera leaned over his folded hands, rubbed his forehead. “Listen, I didn’t say nothing about nothing. He is a stranger who came in from the street, okay? I could tell he costs a lot the same way you can tell. Money shows, no? His clothes, his... The haircut, the cologne, the shoes. You see his shoes? Two hundred, three hundred bucks.”

“I don’t know shoes. But I know briefcases. Attaché cases, you know, like lawyers carry? His was a good one. A very good one.”

“Yeah?” Mera was interested in how much things cost. “How much a very good one runs? How much money?”

“A good one, a custom-made, one of a kind—maybe a thousand dollars. The best kind, I’m talking about.”

“What the hell are they talking about—shoes and attaché cases?” Assistant District Attorney Waters wanted to know. He could follow the conversation from the intercom on Captain O’Connor’s desk, but it didn’t make any sense to him.

Captain O’Connor and Detective Dunphy couldn’t understand any Spanish, but they did realize that Miranda was calming things down, getting things in order, settling Mera, priming him, setting him up. Playing with him. Firenze, the attorney, left without a word of explanation. He did not have to nor did he intend to tell them who had hired him or why Mera had reacted so violently.

“That’s a lot of money,” Mera said. “But a bum like that—money is nothing to him. The kind of money that runs through their hands—shit, they have trouble spending it, you know. Custom everything, suits, cars, whores. Custom whores. That’s funny, no? A whore to order: size, color, shape, special tricks, special smell, special clothes, special special special. Oh, what the hell, a whore has a right to make money, no? I say good that they get to share some of it. They do okay because these guys, they play with the money there is so much.”