Bust (24 page)

D
OMENIC
S
TANSBERRY
,
The Confession

When Angela told Max she was taking a late lunch, Max said, “What about that phone call?”

“I’ll try again from the street,” Angela said. “I have to go — I have a two o’clock appointment at my hairdresser.”

Angela had just said this as an excuse to get out of the office, but on the way downstairs she decided that getting a haircut would be a good idea. Maybe she could get a blow out and a wash every day until she could start using her shower again.

Angela took the 1 train from Times Square and got off at Ninety-sixth Street. Bobby had said he wanted to meet on the Riverside Park promenade, between the Hudson River and the tennis courts.

Angela’s bruises and cuts were still bothering her, especially the one on her thigh, but she knew she’d feel better once she figured out a way to get Bobby out of the way. Maybe she’d sleep with him again if she had to. He had B.O. and he wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world but, she had to admit, there was something kind of hot about wheelchair sex.

She entered Riverside Park at Ninety-sixth Street and walked toward the river. She came to the underpass Bobby was talking about and went through to the promenade.
It was a clear, sunny day, about seventy degrees. There were a few old men sitting on benches and other people out jogging and walking their dogs. Angela got to the spot Bobby had described and looked around. She didn’t see him anywhere. She checked her watch — a few minutes after two.

She was tired and her thigh was hurting worse than before. She wanted to sit down, but all the benches nearby were either taken or covered with bird shit. She went back toward the water, leaned against the railing, and stared out toward New Jersey.

Bobby was waiting on a path on the wooded hill behind the tennis courts. The trees had blossomed a few weeks earlier so there was good cover. From his position, he had a nice, clear view of the promenade. Angela wasn’t there yet, but when she showed up he’d be ready for her. In the big front pocket of his windbreaker he had a stainless steel .44 snub nose Mag Hunter. Yeah, fuckin hardware — it made the man.

Angela would be about sixty yards away — a tough shot for most people, but point-blank range for Bobby. He was already getting flashbacks of all the towelheads he’d taken down in Iraq, the sheer rush he’d get when he had those sand rats in his sight.

A few minutes later, Bobby saw Angela walking along the promenade. For some reason she was limping. She looked pale and drawn, not nearly as sexy as she had the other times Bobby had seen her. He remembered what she’d said, about the wheelchair being “kind of sexy.” An old song began to play in his head,
Where was the love?

When she got to the spot where they were supposed to meet Bobby took out the Mag and fitted on a silencer. Man, just holding a loaded gun again got Bobby juiced.

He looked around to make sure there was no one
nearby, watching him, then he raised the gun and aimed at Angela’s chest.

Angela limped toward a bench and looked like she was about to sit down, then she turned and went back toward the railing of the promenade. She put her hands on the railing and looked out across the river. Bobby was locked in on a spot right between her shoulder blades, figuring he’d give it to her in the back. But when Bobby fired, the bullet tore through Angela’s right thigh instead, his chair bucking from the recoil. Angela fell back against the railing, then her legs buckled and she coiled onto the cement. Bobby fired again, but the angle was shitty and this time he missed completely, the bullet whizzing by above Angela’s head. Bobby cursed and fired again. The bullet hit the concrete on the promenade and ricocheted into the Hudson. Angela was on her knees now. He fired two more times — one bullet entered the left side of her stomach, the other, finally, ripped through her chest. Now Angela was on her side, covered in blood. Bobby twisted off the silencer, put it and the Mag back inside his windbreaker, and wheeled out of the park, thinking, Who sang that goddamn song?

Everyone knows what he has to do next and sticks to it. It’s a simple way of life, and one that allows a man to get the most out of his simple pleasures, without cluttering up his swede with plans stretching too far hence.

C
HARLIE
W
ILLIAMS
,
Deadfolk

Sherry, today’s temp receptionist, buzzed Max’s office and told him there were two police officers here to see him. Was there a tiny smug tone in her voice?

“Shit,” Max said. “Tell them I’ll be right out.”

Max had been calling Andrew McCullough all afternoon and the bastard wasn’t returning his calls. And Angela still wasn’t back from lunch so Max didn’t know what was going on with her cousin and Popeye. As he opened his office door Max promised himself that this time he wouldn’t say anything without some kind of lawyer present, even if he had to use fucking Darrow.

Louis Ortiz, the detective who had questioned him the other night, was standing next to the reception desk, next to a tall, older man with a mustache whom Max had never seen before. Ortiz and the older guy were both wearing plain gray suits and they both had serious, angry expressions.

Max thought,
Uh oh
, and wished he’d taken a look at that freaking Zen book. Maybe if he had he’d be relaxed, he wouldn’t be shitting fucking bricks right now.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Max said, trying to stay as calm as possible. “Can I help you with something?”

“You can get your coat,” Ortiz said.

“Am I under arrest?” Max asked, trying to make it into a joke.

“We’re taking you in for questioning,” Ortiz said.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“You don’t have a choice,” Ortiz said.

“I don’t understand,” Max said. “What’s going on?”

“Angela Petrakos was shot earlier today,” the tall man explained, “in Riverside Park.”

The words took a few seconds to register.

“Angela Petrakos?” he said. “You mean the Angela Petrakos who works for me?”

Several people in the office had been eavesdropping. Now people were talking at once, asking the detectives what was going on. Finally, Ortiz, talking above everyone, said, “This is police business. You’ll all be briefed as soon as it’s appropriate. Right now we need to talk to Mr. Fisher. Mr. Fisher, are you gonna come with us or am I gonna have to cuff you?”

Ortiz had a malicious grin, looking like he wanted to cuff Max more than he wanted his next meal.

Suddenly, the office was quiet. Although he was still looking at Ortiz and at the other detective, Max could sense that everyone else was staring at him. He remembered watching
Law and Order,
the ones with Jerry Orbach, and he was tempted to say,
I think I need to get lawyered up
. But instead he said, “Let me just get my coat,” and he went back into his office. When he came out, wearing his sport jacket, a larger crowd had formed.

“This isn’t a vacation day,” Max said, above all the other voices, using a tone of authority, of steel. “Come on everybody, let’s get back to work.”

A few people went back to their desks, but a large group remained near the front of the office. No one seemed to feel sorry for Max. Actually, the bastards seemed happy to watch him being taken away. Max
couldn’t understand this. He’d always been a good boss. He only fired people when they deserved to be fired and hadn’t he just announced a ten-percent raise?

On the way to the precinct, Max remembered the appointment he had made with Mr. Takahashi for this evening at six-thirty. Sitting in the back of the car, Max asked the detectives up front how long this questioning was going to take.

“As long as it needs to,” Ortiz said.

“Seriously,” Max said. “I have an important appointment with a client in less than two hours. Am I gonna have to reschedule it or not?”

The detectives looked at each other as Max reached into his jacket for his Blackberry. The car stopped short. Ortiz got out and opened the back door.

“Give me that fucking thing.”

“What’s the big deal?” Max said. “I’m just making one call.”

Ortiz reached for the Blackberry. Max wouldn’t let go and, turning away, he elbowed Ortiz in the face.

“You fucked up big-time now,” Ortiz said. “I’m gonna book you for disorderly conduct and assaulting a police officer.”

Max thought Ortiz was kidding until he pulled him out of the car and cuffed him.

At the precinct, after he was booked, Max used his one phone call to call McCullough. McCullough was still in the office, thank God, but he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. Max screamed at the secretary, demanding to speak with him. The secretary said, “I don’t enjoy being spoken to this way” and was about to hang up. Max begged her to stay on the line and then he left a message that he had been taken into police custody and to please come to the precinct as soon as possible.

Max was put in a holding cell with two other men who
looked homeless. One of them was lying on the bench, passed out, handcuffed to the bars. The other guy was squatting in the back of the cell, his hands crossed in front of his knees, mumbling to himself. They were both wearing ripped, dirty clothes. The whole place smelled like piss.

Max had been waiting in the cell for nearly two hours when McCullough finally showed up. Max was disappointed by how he looked. He was expecting an older, seasoned guy, but McCullough looked like he was right out of law school. He had short blond hair and light blue eyes and he didn’t look a day over thirty. He pulled a chair up outside the cell and spoke to Max through the bars.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner,” McCullough explained, “but I’ve had a chance to speak with a couple of detectives, so hopefully I can give you an idea what’s going on.”

“Just get me the hell out of here,” Max said.

“I’m working on that, but legally they can hold you overnight, or until a judge can see you downtown.”

“If you think I’m spending a night in jail—”

“Let’s not worry about that right now. The important thing right now is
why
you’re here. I understand you assaulted Detective Ortiz.”

“I didn’t assault anybody,” Max said. “I was just trying to use my Blackberry and I accidentally elbowed the guy in the face.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got bigger problems anyway,” McCullough said. “The detectives seem to think you had something to do with the murders of your wife and your niece and Detective Kenneth Simmons, as well as the attempted murder of Angela Petrakos. Now before I can agree to represent you I need to know the truth — did you have anything to do with any of those crimes?”

Max remembered
The Godfather
, Diane Keaton asking Al Pacino if he was in the Mob. Max stared into McCullough’s eyes for a few seconds, trying to get his face to look like Pacino’s, then said, “Absolutely not.”

“Alrighty,” McCullough said, opening a small notepad, “so now we can get down to business. Let’s talk about Angela Petrakos first — she’s your executive assistant, I understand?”

Max nodded.

“She was shot this afternoon in Riverside Park, a little after two o’clock.” Max thought there was a prissy tone in McCullough’s voice and he noticed that the man’s teeth were capped. The caps were bad news. They were a sign of self-absorption, the last quality in the world you wanted from your lawyer.

“Who shot her?” Max asked

“They don’t know yet. They haven’t had a chance to speak with her. She’s still in critical condition at Columbia Presbyterian.”

Fuck, Max had been hoping she was dead. If she lived, it would be a freakin’ disaster. The police would grill her and, in her condition, she’d probably spill everything. Wasn’t he ever gonna catch a break?

“So, do they think she’s gonna make it?” Max asked, praying the answer would be no.

“It’s hard to say,” McCullough said. “Her injuries are quite severe.”

“Shit,” Max said, hoping “severe” meant brain damage or something like that.

“Unfortunately, that’s not all the bad news,” McCullough continued, reading from his pad. “About an hour ago, the police entered Angela’s apartment on East Twenty-fifth Street and discovered a body decomposing in her bathtub.”

Max blinked. “A body?”

“Apparently the neighbors had complained about the smell. According to the police, she or someone else had poured Drano all over the corpse.”

Jesus Fucking Christ. She was a psycho. It was as simple as that. Max couldn’t believe he’d fallen for her. If he’d just had a thing for flat-chested women none of this would have happened.

“The police haven’t been able to get a positive ID on the body yet,” McCullough said, “but going by some other evidence they found in the apartment, they’re almost certain the dead guy is Thomas Dillon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Max tried not to have a reaction. If he’d learnt one lesson in business, it was never show the person sitting across the table from you what you were thinking. He shook his head slowly.

“They’ve talked to some people who’d seen Dillon around the neighborhood, and they said he used to carry a book around with him, a book about Zen. They think it’s the same book they found on your desk in your office.”

“Wait a minute!” Max said. “Angela gave me that! This morning, she said it was a fucking gift.”

“Unfortunately, she’s not in a position to corroborate that right now. In the eyes of the police, it’s a connection between you and Dillon.”

Max shook his head miserably, thinking, What next?

“The police also found a gun in the apartment,” McCullough said. “A Colt Lady .38. They think this was the gun that was used in the three murders.”

“So Angela killed my wife?”

“Or Dillon,” McCullough said, “or both of them. The police definitely don’t think it was just a coincidence that Angela works for you. They think you were having an affair with her and conspired with her, or with her and Dillon, to kill your wife.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max said.

“Well, we’ll have to convince a judge of that,” McCullough said. “Which means we need a better explanation for what happened. For instance, maybe Angela had the idea to rob your house, talked Dillon into doing it, and gave him the code to your alarm, but then your wife and niece came home during the robbery and everything went to hell. I don’t know how that cop got killed, but I’m sure he’ll fit into the picture somehow.”