St. Patrick's Day Murder (13 page)

He kissed me and said, “Let’s get ready.”

Jack changed into black corduroy pants and a black turtleneck. I was wearing jeans and a sweater and wasn’t going to dress up to meet an informant. But Jack took something out of his closet and tossed it on the bed.

“Put this on under your sweater.”

Shivers ran through me. “What’s that?” I said, although I knew.

“A bulletproof vest. Your sweater’s big enough to cover it.”

“What about you?”

“I’m the guy who’s hiding in the construction, remember? You’ll be out in the open—if we decide you’re going through with it. Put it on.”

It wasn’t made for a woman’s body, but it more or less fit and covered a lot more of me than it probably did of Jack. The sweater was a bulky cotton knit and it just made me look as though I’d tacked on ten pounds between my waist and shoulders.

“Not bad,” Jack said. He changed his shoes, putting on heavy low boots with thick soles that looked as though they could grip any surface.

It was almost ten when we were ready. I put on the camelhair coat Melanie had lent me and took my bag. I had half emptied it, removing cash and ID. The cash I left in the apartment; the driver’s license and car registration I put in my coat pocket. If he didn’t already know who I was, my possessions wouldn’t tell him anything.

We were at the door when the phone rang. Jack went back and answered. I heard him say, “Stay with it, Sal,” and he hung up.

When he came back he said, “Farina’s on the move. Looks like he’s heading for Manhattan.”

Damrosch Park is at the southern end of Lincoln Center, which is a collection of buildings devoted to the performing arts built around a central plaza with a fountain and lights. On opera nights the limousines drive up and deliver their wealthy occupants, who then take their places in reserved boxes in the Metropolitan Opera. Besides the Met, there are theaters, concert and recital halls, restaurants and shops. The West Side subway rumbles underneath as it makes its way up and down Broadway.

Quite naturally, the Juilliard School of Music relocated at the north end of Lincoln Center and Fordham University has built to the south. It was there that Jack thought some lingering construction might afford him cover.

When we arrived at ten-thirty, one of the theaters was emptying. There were plenty of people in the area, on the streets and in restaurants. By midnight, most of them would be gone and the place would be deserted. Jack drove along Sixty-second Street, from Amsterdam to Columbus Avenue, to show me where the meeting point would be.

There was no construction for a square block. But across Sixty-second from the park was a small security booth with a uniformed guard. That seemed to please Jack.

After our swing around the area, he drove to a bank of phones and got out to call Sal. He was back quickly.

“They’re crossing the bridge into Manhattan. I’ll try to call him again before midnight. Let me have a chat with the guard on Sixty-second.”

He parked on Amsterdam Avenue, near Fordham. A fence separated the sidewalk from the construction on the other side. The windows I could see were dark and the street was
fairly empty. The Lincoln Center crowd kept to Columbus Avenue and Broadway, one and two blocks east, where the night spots were. The only action here was the occasional dog walker.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said cheerfully. “Lock the doors.”

“You look like a second-story man.” He had a flashlight poking out of one pocket and an absolute lack of color anywhere.

I reached over and pressed the button to lock the door as he left, watching him until he turned the far corner. The wait was longer than I expected, or at least it felt that way. I probably have the last analog clock in an automobile; its advantage is that you can read it even when the motor is off, something you can’t do with the newer digitals, but it was too dark to see and I didn’t want to turn the dome light on because I didn’t want to draw attention to the car. Joe Farina was on his way to Manhattan and I didn’t want him to drive by and see me alone in a car in the passenger seat. So I sat in the dark and waited.

A couple went by, talking. They were having a good time, joking around, moving and turning as they walked. Across the street a small dog used a car tire instead of the traditional fire hydrant and then moved along with its master. From behind me, a man in a too-long overcoat came slowly even with my window. He wasn’t looking at me, and, as I watched him, I realized he was one of the many homeless you can see almost anywhere in the city these days. He sat next to the fence and drew blankets over himself, but he didn’t lie down. He took a bottle out from under his coat and drank from it, wiping his mouth with a gloved hand. After a minute or two, he put the bottle away, got up with difficulty, and continued slowly up the block toward Lincoln Center. It was too cold a night to be sleeping outside, but he looked as though he was used to the rigors of street life.

I could feel tension building. How long should it take to get the security guard to let him stay in the booth? Maybe he had changed his mind and found some other place or had fallen and was hurt in some out-of-the-way cranny I could not find.

Someone suddenly turned the far corner. I kept my eyes
on the figure as it passed under a streetlight. It wasn’t Jack. I refocused on the corner, telling myself he was capable and careful, knew what he was doing, and would show up when he was ready. A woman walking a good-sized dog went by. It must take up half her kitchen, I thought, trying to imagine it lying down in an apartment-size kitchen. Come on, Jack, where are you?

A single figure crossed the street, coming toward me. It shuffled rather than walked, moving with apparent difficulty. As it passed under a light, I recognized the homeless man who had stopped for a drink several minutes earlier. This time he was coming straight at me and I didn’t want to be seen. I ducked in the seat, giving him time to pass the car. When I tentatively raised my head, he was gone. In the side mirror I could make out what looked like his back several car-lengths behind me.

“How’re things?” The door opened, and Jack slipped inside.

“I’m glad to see you. I was starting to hallucinate.”

“Nothing to worry about. All I did was flash my shield and it was, ‘Yes, Sergeant’ ‘You got it, Sergeant’ ‘Anything you want, Sergeant.’ ”

“Jack, I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh, bad sign.”

“Whoever this person is, we assume he followed me on Monday when I left Ray’s apartment.”

“Right. That’s how he knows you know Jean.”

“What if he saw both of us that morning, maybe when we got to Ray’s apartment? That puts you and me together. So he gets me here tonight, but what he’s really looking for is you because you’re the one who was supposed to get shot on St. Patrick’s Day.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“But if I’m right, he isn’t coming to talk to me, he’s coming to get you.”

“He isn’t going to see me, and if you don’t show, he won’t see you.”

“He may not show himself until I do. He could also be sitting in a car somewhere around here, waiting. Or maybe he’s
already seen the car and knows I’m here and all he has to do is wait for you to get back to Sixty-second Street.”

“Anyone take a look at you while I was gone?”

“Just some dog walkers.” I thought. “A young couple.” I liked this whole thing less and less. “Jack, a homeless man.” I told him rapidly.

“Stay here.” He got out of the car and started down the street.

I locked his door and got out and followed him, staying enough behind so that I wouldn’t be in the way. He moved fast, jogging along, and I ran to keep up. We passed Sixtieth Street, where one of the buildings of John Jay College of Criminal Justice was; Jack had pointed it out earlier as we surveyed the area. As I stepped up on the curb, I stopped short. Jack was almost at Fifty-ninth Street and he was talking to someone. I walked slowly toward them.

I heard Jack say, “OK, take care,” and then he turned and caught up with me, putting his arm around my shoulder. “He’s clean. Which means he’s filthy, and he stinks of alcohol. If he’s someone pretending to be homeless, he’s gone too far. That’s not our guy.”

“OK.”

“Let’s stop in for a cup of coffee and a little warmth.”

We went into a coffee shop, and I ordered hot chocolate. I needed the heat, both outside and inside. My watch showed after eleven.

Jack went to call Sal for the last time. He came back and dropped into his chair, looking troubled. “I can’t raise him.”

“He’s not in the car?”

“Either that or he’s turned off the phone to keep the sound down. I don’t like it.”

I didn’t, either. He had promised to stay with Joe Farina till midnight.

“I’d be a lot happier if you’d stay in the car, right where it’s parked.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, here’s what I would do. At a couple of minutes to twelve, I’d drive up to Sixty-second, turn the comer, and leave the car. Double-park if you have to. Then get out, cross the street, and stand near the sign. Don’t look in my direction.
I’ll have a clear view of you. If he shows, talk to him, then get into the car and drive around the corner to Columbus, down to Sixtieth. Take a right and stop. I’ll meet you there.”

“OK.”

“Don’t go anywhere with him, don’t get into any car except your own. You get nervous, you put your hand up to your face.” He touched his own right cheek. “It’s a decoy cop’s signal to his backup to move in, a nice, natural move. Got it?”

“Got it. Don’t worry.”

“Feel warmer?”

“A little.”

“There’s no rush. When we go back to the car, I’ll walk on the other side of the street. I’ll watch you every step of the way.”

“You’re sure about that homeless man?”

“Absolutely positive.”

I left the coffee shop first and walked north, keeping my pace at a kind of New York night normal speed, adhering to all the rules: Don’t make eye contact; hold your purse close to your body; don’t dawdle. I had the car key in my coat pocket, so I wouldn’t have to open my bag and look for it. Without glancing around, I knew Jack was there and I knew he was watching me, giving me a feeling of security that lasted until I sat behind the wheel. I fixed my eyes on the street corner a block ahead, hoping to see him turn into Sixty-second Street, but I never did. In the pit of my stomach I felt sick. Had I merely missed him in the dark or had something happened? “Maybe this isn’t the life for you, Kix,” I said out loud. Where was he? Had he gone a block farther north to circle around to Columbus? Or turned around after I was in the car and cut across Sixtieth? I checked the rearview mirror and the side mirror. I looked across the street and back to the corner ahead of me. There was no Jack.

I put the key in the ignition and turned it enough clicks for the radio to go on. CBS was pretty good about telling you the time, but I had to wait several minutes to find out that it was 11:36. I turned off the radio and sat back and waited.

The usuals walked by. Two dogs barked at each other as they passed. A siren sounded several blocks away and faded without getting any closer. A truck lumbered by noisily. Two women walking alone passed my car. I never think of women being out that late by themselves in New York, but I guess if you work at night, you’ve got to get home somehow.

The homeless man came back.

This time I was scared. He walked right up to the place where he had sat the last time and maneuvered himself down on the sidewalk. He pulled the bottle out from under his coat and took a gulp. He was sitting north of the front of my car and several feet away, across the sidewalk, so it was impossible in the dark to tell whether he was looking my way or not. But after he drank the whiskey, I saw him reshape himself as he lay down and drew blankets over himself.

I turned the key again and put on the radio. I guessed that five or ten minutes had gone by, but to my surprise the announcer said it was 11:55 and time for the business news.

It was time for me to get ready.

I counted to sixty. Jack had said a few minutes before twelve. Somehow, I knew I would rather be late than early. The homeless man had stopped moving. Now he was merely a large bundle of rags along the fence. I sat for some long seconds and turned the radio on again. CBS was going into its pre-top-of-the-hour news headlines. I turned on the motor and pulled out.

I drove to Sixty-second and made my right turn, the midnight news coming on just as I stopped the car. I turned off the radio, double-parking as Jack had suggested, and looked around. The street was empty. I put the car key in my coat pocket, took my bag, and got out of the car. I was almost relieved that the hour had come, that finally something would happen. Without moving my head, I could see the security booth down the block, its light dimmed. There was a dark figure inside, but with my cursory glance, I couldn’t tell if there were two.

I crossed the street and walked down the block toward Columbus Avenue, stopping when I made out the bronze sign on the white marble wall at the edge of the park,
DAMROSCH PARK
. A nice way to be memorialized, I thought, a park at
the edge of a music complex. I looked back the way I had come, but no one was there. I scanned the area, from my right slowly around to my left, my eyes lingering only slightly on the security booth. A couple walked down the other side of the street silently, but there was no one else.

It was very cold. I moved my scarf to protect more of my neck, feeling the weight and discomfort of the bulletproof vest. I could see why officers were reluctant to wear them. They must be killers in summer, I thought.

Come on, I said in my head, addressing my absent anonymous informant. You set this up. At least be on time. In my mind, the man was Joe Farina. I could see the tall, handsome cop who had taken up residence with Gavin Moore’s widow. Even in the shadows I would know him by his height, and I was pretty sure I would recognize his voice, even though I had only heard a few sentences.

But he didn’t come. I walked into the pool of light cast by a nearby streetlight and looked at my watch. Ten after twelve. I went back to stay in Jack’s line of sight. I looked inside the park, in case Jean had gotten the instructions wrong, but no one was there. I rubbed my gloved hands together and moved my arms around, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. It had all been for nothing, the planning, the uncertainty, the anxiety. A car came down the street and turned right at Amsterdam. A quarter after. I felt angry now. Come on, Joe. Don’t do this to me. You had something to tell me. Do it. I could be in a warm bed with a warm man instead of freezing on the street.