The Exiled (15 page)

H
e sat with Dunham in a windowless room off the kitchen, a bottle of white wine and a bowl of mussels on the table between them, a recorder strapped to his chest. He felt out of sync with his surroundings—found himself shivering though the room was warm, squinting though the light was soft. He couldn't tell if he needed more or had taken too much.

“The joint's jumping,” Dunham said.

There was a sextet onstage. Their playing filtered through the kitchen, muted but clear. Dunham's right leg kept pace with the drummer. The house knew when to applaud.

Dunham used the shell of one mussel to pluck out another.

“Pierre says this is what French kings used to eat when they sat down with their ministers. I think he's full of shit, but I'm not complaining.”

“So now I'm a minister?”

“There can only be one king, Deadly. That's why we're here.”

Raney filled their glasses.

“You said you have a plan.”

“I think you're going to like it. We use our hillbilly money to pull together a crew. I'm thinking twenty guys, five groups of four. We hit my uncle five different places on the same night at the same time. We make it a bloodbath. Gut his operation inside of an hour. Then we watch whatever rats are left jump ship.”

“Why not just take him out?”

“I thought about that. It's no good if we leave his army in play. They might have different ideas about who steps up. They'd come after me for sure. We've got to wipe the whole slate clean.”

Raney thought: So you and Stone want the same thing.

“Where do we get this crew?” Raney asked.

“We need ghosts,” Dunham said. “Out-of-towners. Hired guns who'll be here and gone. Minimize the locals, and you minimize the chance of a tip-off.”

“Twenty is a big number. You have anyone in mind?”

“We'd have to pull from all over. Twenty guys who know each other could be just as bad as leaving Meno's boys intact. Maybe we start with the hillbillies. You think they'd be up for some big-city hunting? They looked sad they didn't get to kill us.”

“Wouldn't that be shitting where we eat?” Raney said. “Anything goes sideways, and we lose our funding.”

“You have a better idea?”

“We could reach out to gangs from around the country. Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, Houston, LA. Tell them we want their best and brightest for a night.”

“We'd get a bunch of fuck-up street kids.”

“Not if we stick with one percenters.”

“Bikers?”

“They're disciplined. They know to keep their mouths shut. And they're used to consequences if they don't get results.”

“You have a way in?”

“I'm thinking Farlow could make a few introductions.”

“Outside of New York?”

“They have chapters around the country. Every year they pick some small town for their get-together and turn the citizens' lives to shit for a week. They all know each other. They share business. That's how the feds hit the Hells Angels with RICO violations.”

“Those charges didn't hold up.”

“Because no one broke rank.”

“All right,” Dunham said. “It's an option. Talk to Farlow. See what he gives you. I'll ask around on my end. I want this to go quick. Fucking Meno's got spies everywhere.”

“I'll get with Farlow tomorrow.”

“Good,” Dunham said. “Now let's adjourn with a little blow.”

Raney saw it: five groups of undercovers sweeping up Meno's organization in a single night. Stone would see it, too. For Dunham's plan to work, he'd have to give Raney every detail: locations, activities, people involved. Raney would have Dunham dishing up Meno on tape. Let Dunham think they were plotting a massacre while really they were planning the largest sweep in city history.

He spent that night listening to the recording, memorizing it, making one duplicate after another. Dunham's voice echoed through his barely furnished apartment while Raney did jumping jacks and ran in place, convinced that if he sat still his body would shut down, that he would become, like Dunham, nothing more than sound in an empty room.

He called the DA from a pay phone in Brooklyn, hung up on the machine, tried again. He left a message telling Stone to expect another early morning visit.

“It's blown open,” he said.

He swallowed four benzos, slept in his clothes, fought his way conscious when the alarm sounded. Driving up the West Side Highway, he imagined Stone's reaction as he listened to the tape: disbelief giving way to quiet exhilaration, a stern effort to keep himself in check. Dunham had laid it all out so clearly that there would be little to add. Stone might fret about manpower and logistics, but he would come around quickly: play it right, and they'd have Meno and the bulk of his organization in lockup by the end of the month.

He parked three blocks shy of Stone's apartment, stopped to pick up an assortment of bagels and two extra-large coffees. He crested a hill, saw the avenue below blocked off with sawhorses and squad cars. An ambulance sat on the sidewalk in front of Stone's building, its back doors propped open. Reporters and camera crews lined up behind yellow tape. The chief of police stood by the entrance, waving in a platoon of detectives. Raney backed away, dropped the coffees and bagels in a trash can, sprinted for the nearest phone booth.

The desk sergeant at his old precinct confirmed what he already knew: Stone was dead. He'd been executed, shot in the forehead at point-blank range in the lobby of his building, dressed for his morning run. The doorman, the only witness, had also been killed. The sergeant couldn't say anything more.

Raney ripped the handset from its cord, beat the receiver against the cradle until the plastic shattered. Passersby slowed to watch.

He drove south, then north again, thinking, or failing to move past a single thought: Stone's active cases would stall. They'd find an underling to tread water until a new DA was appointed. Raney would be pulled back into rotation, maybe busted down to patrol. If Stone kept detailed notes, they might cut him loose altogether, save the department the embarrassment of a trial. The immediate priority would be to find the killer, but without a living witness the field was wide open: Stone had filing cabinets' worth of enemies.

He felt a sudden need to hear Sophia's voice. He called from a bodega in midtown. An automated message said the number had been disconnected. He dialed again, listened to the same message a second time.

He drove to her apartment in Brooklyn Heights, the apartment she'd bought with her father's money, the apartment they'd lived in together for more than a year. He jogged up three flights, found that his key no longer fit the lock. He rang the bell, beat on the door. No answer. He shouted her name. An elderly neighbor eyeballed him from across the hall.

“Oh, it's you,” she said. “I thought you were long gone.”

“What does that mean?” Raney said.

She stared at him without blinking.

“Tell me what that means.”

He started toward her. She retreated inside, clicked a series of bolts into place.

Raney did a line on the staircase, then got back on the BQE, headed for Queens.

Ferguson answered the door himself, a cigar in his mouth, Jake running circles at his side.

“Where's Sophia?” Raney said.

“Where she always is at this hour: work. If you really wanted to see her, that's where you'd be.”

“I called. They said she was in the field.”

“Then she's in the field.”

“Why did she change the locks? Why is the phone dead?”

“I think that's obvious. Come in. I'll get you a cup of coffee. You look like you need it.”

“I don't want coffee. Just tell me what's going on.”

“Not here. I can't have hysterical young men standing on my stoop in the middle of the day. Come inside.”

Raney fended Jake off with one arm, shut the door behind him.

“Tell me why Sophia…”

“You aren't here about my daughter,” Ferguson said. “I'm not a fool. Stone is dead. You don't know where to turn. Now keep my dog entertained while I brew a pot.”

Raney sat cross-legged on the floor, holding one end of a frayed rope toy while the ex-captain's Irish setter tugged at the other. A public radio station echoed through the living room. A cross section of pundits debated whether or not it was too early to consider Stone's legacy. They were all talking at once. Raney couldn't tell if they were angry at each other or at Stone. Ferguson came back carrying a small tray.

“Looks like Jake is winning,” he said.

He seemed smug, satisfied. Stone was one more person he'd outlived. He set the tray on the coffee table, silenced the radio with a remote control. They sat opposite one another in the same overstuffed armchairs they'd occupied the last time Raney was there. Jake tried to climb on Raney's lap. Ferguson clapped his hands.

“Go lie down,” he said.

The dog obeyed. Raney wiped slobber from his jeans.

“Jake's a good judge of character,” Ferguson said. “So is my daughter. That's why you're sitting here. But this conversation is the end of your involvement with my family. You've backed yourself into a situation, Detective, and I don't want my daughter anywhere near it.”

“She can decide for herself,” Raney said.

“If I were a plumber, that might be true. But I can make things happen. I can stop things from happening. I worked my entire life for that privilege, and I intend to use it liberally in whatever time I have left.”

“We love each other,” Raney said.

“Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “Love is just biology making fools of us.”

Raney pushed himself up.

“I shouldn't have come here,” he said.

“But you did,” Ferguson said. “So sit. I'll do the talking. I'll make it short.”

Raney sat.

“Good boy,” Ferguson said. “Now let me tell you about the bind you're in. You're looking for a way to save yourself and still bring Meno and Dunham to trial. You've invested a lot, and you want to come out the hero.”

“I want to do my job. I want to finish what I started.”

“Fair enough. But how many laws have you broken along the way? Stone had your back. He told himself he put justice above the law. Really, he put his own ambition above everything and everyone. If you brought Meno and Dunham in now, you'd have no protection. Either they'd walk, or you'd end up sharing the same cell block.”

“Who will protect me if I don't bring them in?”

“Why do you think I had Sophia change the locks? I plan to sell that apartment and move her to a different borough. We live in a city where the DA is fair game. They'll come after you without a second thought. If they can't get you, they'll get whoever you care about. As far as I know, that's one person in the world: my daughter.”

“You keep saying
they
. There's Dunham. That's it.”

“And if something happens to Dunham now, you don't think Meno will play the good uncle? In private, he'll be grateful, but he'll have to keep up appearances, if only to make his wife happy. You didn't realize how much you had riding on one man. Without Stone, you're at sea in two worlds. You have no one to exfiltrate you from one, no one to welcome you home in the other.”

“So what are my options?”

“There's always Canada.”

“You know I wouldn't.”

“I know,” Ferguson said. “I almost pity you. You feel the walls closing in. How do you relieve that pressure?”

“What would you do?”

“What would
they
do? I mean Meno or Dunham or any of their ilk. I told you before: if you see an opportunity, take it. Now you have to make an opportunity. Get them in the same room. Finish this.”

“Is that what you did to Bruno?”

“Bruno killed a cop. I did what any officer who ever wore the uniform would have done.”

“What would you do to the man who killed a DA?”

“Exactly the same. But I'd need proof. And Stone leaves behind a long list of enemies.”

“Including Meno.”

“And everyone he prosecuted in the last decade, or was planning to prosecute in the next.”

“But Meno's the one
you
want dead.”

“Exercise discretion, Detective Raney. I doubt either of us wishes to cause my daughter further pain.”

B
ay pulled up in front of Hotel on Main at a little before midnight.

“We're fucked on this, ain't we?” he said. “The psychopath beat us all the way around.”

“We're not done yet.”

“Even so, he's had a good run on our watch.”

“He has. Get some rest, Bay.”

“I plan to. If you need me, I'll be bunking at the station tonight. I'm about to nod off at the wheel.”

Raney started for the lobby, then thought better of it. He walked to Clara's apartment, rang the bell, waved when she looked out her window. A light came on in the hallway; her bare feet appeared on the stairs. Her shirt and jeans were spattered in earth tones. A quarter-size gob of brown stuck to her cheek. Raney rubbed it away with his thumb.

“You're painting again,” he said.

“Slowly,” she said. “Methodically. I don't know how else to pass the time.”

“I hope I didn't wake Daniel.”

“He's unwakeable.”

He waited while she rinsed out her brushes in the kitchen sink, then took a fresh set of clothes into the bathroom. He walked over to the canvas she'd been working on: pockets of color he imagined would coalesce into a landscape.

“Nothing much to see yet,” she said. “I'm not sure where that one's going, or if it's going anywhere.”

“I know the feeling,” Raney said.

She crossed to the small drafting table she used as a desk, pressed a button on her laptop. Django Reinhardt strummed from wall-mounted speakers.

“Is that all right?” she asked.

“It's lovely.”

“
Lovely?
That doesn't sound like a Brooklyn word.”

“Sorry,” Raney said. “I meant fucking lovely.”

She smiled, flicked his ear.

“I'll open a few windows,” Clara said. “I don't usually smoke so much, but I spent the day planning Mavis's funeral. There's no one else to do it. I have no idea how I'll come up with the money. She died intestate.”

“Bob Sims might help,” Raney said. “He considers himself charitable.”

“Cavalier and charitable aren't the same thing. Besides, he has financial troubles of his own.”

“There have to be people willing to pitch in. She lived here forty years.”

“But she wasn't the person they thought she was. Word is out. She's a pariah now. I'm not sure there's any point in even having a funeral.”

“I don't know. People have a way of rallying round.”

“They have a way of showing up,” she said. “That's not the same thing.”

“Maybe not.”

“You want a drink? There's a bottle of white in the fridge. South African.”

“Actually,” Raney said, “I wouldn't mind smoking a little.”

“Are you serious?”

“I met a man today who made me curious.”

“This isn't some kind of sting?”

“SWAT's waiting outside the door.”

She leaned over the coffee table, rolled a fresh joint, lit it with a candle flame. Raney took a drag, passed it back.

“You didn't cough,” she said. “That's impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“So what do you think?”

“Fucking lovely.”

“It doesn't kick in right away, you know.”

Raney tried again, held the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling.

“Who was this man?” Clara asked. “The one who made you curious.”

“A schoolteacher.”

“Mavis's schoolteacher?”

“I thought so, but I was wrong.”

“And he's a pothead?”

“He said he smokes to calm his nerves. Is that why you smoke?”

“Sort of,” she said. “I find it slows everything down. Everything seems a little less urgent, a little farther away. I'm less afraid.”

“Of?”

“Most days, of losing Daniel.”

“I think Daniel is yours for keeps.”

“You promise?”

He realized he couldn't. The evidence was overwhelming. Mavis had lost a child. He had lost a child. Clara's father, for better or worse, had lost his children. He felt the pot taking hold. Something blurry came into focus.

“That's what this is about,” he said.

“What?”

“A lost child.”

“I don't follow.”

“Can I borrow your laptop?”

“What's going on?”

“I need to search the Albuquerque obituaries.”

He stayed up into the early morning, working at her small kitchen table, adding and deleting bookmarks from a file he labeled
BEGINNING
. Clara stayed awake with him, painting, taking occasional small drags. Now and again Raney would look up, watch her arm trace an arabesque as she drew the brush back and forth across the canvas. The smell of turpentine kept him alert; the smoke calmed him. He sensed Daniel sleeping quietly nearby. He scrolled through an archive of drug-related headlines, allowed himself to imagine an end to this case, a future beyond it.