The Shadow Man (36 page)

were destined for the walls of the million-dollar homes overlooking Biscayne Bay.

‘Kinda different, huh?’ the Lumberjack said quietly. He had entered the room from a side door.

Walter Robinson turned away. ‘It’s a nice piece,’ he said.

‘Wouldn’t have expected it here, huh?’

‘No,’ Robinson said slowly.

‘My wife was an art student a couple of centuries ago, like before kids and mortgages and all that, and she picked it up on a trip down there. Never could understand why anyone would want to go to Haiti on vacation, you know? Just a lot of people getting poorer every second of the day. That’s why they’re forever trying to come over here.’

‘Coast Guard cutter stopped another boatload just off Key Biscayne the other day,’ Robinson said.

‘Well, there you have it,’ the Lumberjack replied. ‘Anyway, the wife hauls that sucker around, everywhere she went, always saying someday it’d be worth something. You know what? Sucker would go for ten, maybe fifteen grand now. Best investment we ever made, even if it is kinda strange hanging there. I got to insure it. Hell, I’d rather have a new Aquasport twenty-footer. But, hey, you get used to everything after a while.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, what do I know? Kinda ironic, though, isn’t it?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, hell, some poor sucker painted that thing and maybe got a few bucks for it, maybe enough for a meal or a new chicken or a tank of gas or something. But that’s it. And his painting, well, it makes it all the way here to the States, nice and easy. He’d probably be willing to die to get

here, just like so many of those poor suckers. And you know the damn painting’s worth more than he ever will be. Now, that’s irony, huh?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘Hell, you can bet those paintings don’t got to come across the ocean in some handmade, falling-apart boat that’s more likely to sink fifty miles from shore than it is to land on Miami Beach, huh?’

The Lumberjack turned and settled gingerly into an easy chair.

‘You an art lover, Walter?’

‘It’s an interest of mine.’

‘Never did much for me. But hey, what do I know? The wife usta take me to shows and such. I learned to keep my mouth shut. Just stand around, nod, drink the imported fizzy water, and eat the hors d’oeuvres. Agree with everybody. Easier that way, especially when you don’t know shit.’

His arm was still encased in a case that rose up to his neck. The cast forced the arm out ninety degrees from his body, so that the Lumberjack looked like a particularly gangly bird, hopping about with a broken wing.

He grimaced as he shifted position.

‘Sucker still hurts,’ he said.

‘What’s the word?’

‘No more fucking surgery, thank goodness. Four months trussed up like a fucking puppet, then maybe six, eight months rehab. Then, maybe, just maybe, back on the job. But it’s dicey, you know? No one really knows what the fucking arm will do until we try to do it.’

‘How’re you doing?’

‘Wife going crazy with me around. Kids getting a bit tired of it too. I mean, I’m like a fucking kid myself. Can’t drive anywheres. Can’t do much of anything. Watching a

lot of television. What the hell do people see in those soaps anyway?’

Walter Robinson didn’t answer, and the Lumberjack smiled. ‘Going a little crazy myself,’ he added.

The Lumberjack leaned back, then squirmed around.

‘Can’t fucking get comfortable,’ he said. After a few seconds spent shifting position, he looked across the room and one eyebrow arched up. ‘So, Walter, you didn’t drive all the way out here just to see how I was doing, did you? I mean, that would have been okay, if you did, but hey, we weren’t big buddies or anything, so I’m thinking there has to be some other reason, right?’

Robinson nodded his head, just as the Lumberjack’s wife came into the room. ‘Baby’s napping,’ she said. ‘Thank the Lord. Don’t make a sound for an hour or so.’ She looked over at Robinson, as if she were expecting him to start singing or dancing.

‘There’s a problem with the case against Leroy Jefferson. I just wanted you to hear it from me instead of someone else.’

‘Problem?’ asked the wife.

‘What sort of fucking problem?’ the Lumberjack asked, his voice cramping into a demanding guttural sound.

‘Jefferson has been cleared as a suspect in that old woman’s murder. But he can provide substantial information in that case, and in perhaps two other homicides. Very substantial information.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying he’s about to get a deal.’

‘Fuck! What sort of deal? I’ll tell you the deal that motherfucker ought to get! I’d like to take my revolver and shove it right up his ass and pull the trigger. That’s the deal I’d give the bastard.’

‘You’re going to wake up the baby,’ the wife said softly. The Lumberjack stared over at her. He opened his mouth, but stopped before words came out. He turned back to Walter Robinson. His eyes had narrowed.

‘Tell me what you’re saying?’ he demanded again.

‘I’m saying he may walk in return for cooperation.’

The Lumberjack slammed back in the seat, and Robinson knew the motion must have sent rivets of pain through his arm. The policeman snarled, and a sound like a mean dog slowly slid between his teeth.

‘He’s going to shoot me and get away with it?’

‘We’re trying to squeeze him. Going to dangle lessers in front of him, see if he’ll do some time—’ Robinson stopped abruptly as he saw a dark glare form on the Lumberjack’s face. ‘But you know the deal. You know the priorities. You know the way this works.’

‘Yes. Fuck, though, I never thought it’d be me getting screwed.’

The Lumberjack hissed breath out slowly.

‘I don’t think I like it. Not one little fucking bit. And I don’t think it’d go down real sweet with the rest of the fucking department. I mean, cops are generally unhappy when other cops get shot, right, Walter? I don’t think the rest of the department’s gonna be too pleased when the shooter takes a hike, courtesy of the fucking state attorney.’

‘He’s gonna clear a homicide. He’s gonna help us take a real bad guy off the street.’

‘Yeah, and put another one out there,’ the Lumberjack replied.

Walter Robinson was uncomfortable answering this. It was fundamentally true.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just thought you’d want to hear it from me.’

‘Yeah, well, thanks a whole fucking lot.’ The Lumberjack turned away momentarily, then swiveled his head quickly, staring hard at Robinson. ‘This your deal, Walter? This your idea?’

Robinson paused before replying. He thought abruptly of the rabbi and Frieda Kroner, and then had a sudden, chilling vision of the Shadow Man himself, stalking them. Then, just as swiftly, he thought of Espy Martinez, and he knew-he didn’t want the Lumberjack’s anger and resentment poured out all over her, so he gritted his teeth and answered: ‘Yeah. Sure. It’s my deal.’

‘Gonna clear some cases, huh? Maybe make your fucking star rise a bit, right? Gonna get one of those department commendations, maybe a promotion, huh? Lead the pack in homicide with cleared cases. Maybe get the fucking newspapers to write you up. The new, black star on the Beach, right?’

Robinson tried to ignore the racial comment. ‘No. Maybe going to keep someone from killing again. That’s the deal.’

‘Sure,’ the Lumberjack said sarcastically. ‘Sure. And you don’t give a damn that it gets you ahead.’

‘You’re wrong.’

‘Sure I am,’ the policeman said. ‘Took me nine years in uniform to get my gold shield, then I get stuck in robbery and car theft for another three years. How’s that for affirmative action? How long did it take you, Walter? And you went straight to fucking homicide. Big-time move, Walter. No time in the trenches for you, huh? And now I may never work again, thanks a lot.’

Both men were silent. The Lumberjack seemed to be chewing something. ‘You do what you’ve got to do,’ he said. ‘That’s the territory. I understand. Do what you have to.’

Walter Robinson rose. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

‘And I’ll do what I have to do,’ the Lumberjack replied.

Robinson stopped. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing. Not a single fucking thing. Now get out.’

‘What did you mean?’

‘I told you. Not a fucking thing. Door’s that way.’

He wanted to say something else, but couldn’t. He stepped out of the living room and reached the front door. As he swung it open, the Lumberjack’s wife came up behind him.

‘Detective?’ she said quietly.

He turned.’Yes.’

‘It was your arrest he agreed to help out on. Your plan. And you almost got him killed. He may be disabled forever thanks to you. And now you’re going to let the slimeball who did it go free? I hope you rot in Hell, Detective.’ She said the word Detective, but he suspected within the anger that flared in her eyes, the Lumberjack’s wife had an altogether different word in mind. He wondered why she didn’t use it.

‘Get out of my house,’ she said. He thought he heard a rolling n sound stopped at the end of her sentence, as if she were battling to avoid the racial epithet. But then, he thought abruptly, maybe he was wrong. Maybe she was only furious and she didn’t have the slightest intention of calling him a name. Maybe she never noticed that she lived in a world that was both as segregated and frightened of blacks as any pre-Civil War plantation. Maybe, but he doubted it. He thought that this was the nature of Miami; it is a place where people think nigger but won’t say it out loud. He was instantly overcome by the need to get out, get away, get back to his job. He simply nodded, stepping out of the cool central air-conditioning, into the unrelenting midday, summer heat, feeling as if he’d somehow tracked

dirt into the spotless home. As she slammed the door behind him, he heard the clamor of the baby awakening with tears.

Espy Martinez hated the sound of glee that Tommy Alter was unable to conceal in his voice.

‘Knew you’d come to reason, Espy,’ he said.

‘No, Tommy, that’s incorrect. It’s expediency. Not reason.’

The two of them were sitting in a corner of the cafeteria at the Justice Building. Untouched coffee steamed from cups in front of them. A few other prosecutors and public defenders occupied other tables, rarely mingling, and when they did come together, generally it was either to trade insults, challenges, or rivet together an arrangement, just as Martinez and Alter were doing. These other attorneys would glance over at the two of them occasionally, but through tacit understanding of the process, no one sat at the closest tables, creating a buffer zone about them.

‘Well, whatever you want to call it. What’s the offer?’

‘He’s got to do some time, Tommy. He can’t shoot a police officer and walk away from it.’

‘Why not? Police arrive to arrest him for something he didn’t do. They’re the ones smashing down his door, waving their weapons. He’s lucky he didn’t get shot then. He’s lucky you didn’t kill him for something he didn’t do. Seems to me you guys ought to be apologizing to him.’

‘He witnessed a murder and then robbed the victim. Somehow, I don’t think apologies would be completely appropriate.’

‘Well, no time, that’s our position. He’ll take probationary time, if you want. Plead to some lessers. Burglary. Assault. But he isn’t going upstate. Not after helping you

folks find a killer. Maybe even stopping someone before they kill again.’

Espy Martinez inhaled sharply. ‘What are you saying, Tommy? Kill again? What has he said to you? Do you know something?’

‘Did I touch a nerve there, Espy? No, I can’t say I know anything for certain. Just speculating, you know. Figure that there had to be a reason that old woman got killed, and maybe that same reason will apply to someone else. Just a guess.’

Martinez hesitated and Alter smiled.

‘You’re going to get what you want, Espy. A real, live witness. It may not be the best deal in the world, but it isn’t the worst deal that’s ever been made in this building.’

‘He assists completely. Full statement. Description. Works with the artist. Does just anything that Walter Robinson asks him to do, and then he’s available for a trial and he testifies truthfully when called. Got that? Any failure to appear, any reluctance, any false or misleading statement, any unexplained absence, any goddamn slip of the tongue, and he goes away. A long trip for a long time, got it, Tommy?’

‘That’s acceptable. Shall we shake on it?’

‘I don’t want to shake your hand, Tommy.’

He laughed. ‘Somehow, I didn’t think so. Relax, Espy. He’ll help you bring your man in, and then think what a fucking hero you’re gonna be. Just keep that in mind when we go to the judge. I’ll make sure it’s on his docket for the morning. They can bring Jefferson over early. He’s just graduated to a wheelchair.’

Espy Martinez nodded. ‘I want to do this during his regular calendar call - as quietly as possible. Just a quick plea colloquy and then out he goes with the detective.’

Alter smiled and rose. ‘Sure. Makes sense to me.’

‘We have to maintain the integrity of the investigation.’ ‘What a nice, important-sounding phrase that is. Sure you do.’

‘Tommy, don’t get me angrier than I already am.’ ‘Now, why would I want to do that?’ he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he turned away and started across the cafeteria. Martinez saw him make a fist and punch the air in satisfaction. She tried to keep in mind the two old people on the Beach, trying to persuade herself that what she was doing verged on the medicinal; it would keep them alive.

There was one lanky teenager who appeared to have a little more quickness and a little more lift, and when the ball was in his hands, he seemed to move effortlessly toward the basket. From his seat on a bench, just inside the chain-link fence, Simon Winter watched as the teenager dominated the game, sliding remorselessly past bigger players.

He thought: I was like that once.

And then, smiling, he tried to envision what he would have done to stop the teenager. This was technical thinking, the language of precision placed within the fluid context of the basketball court, and he realized that indulging in these fantasies was like fulfilling a child’s need for candy; not altogether necessary for life, but something that delivers a momentary pleasure. He studied the teenager carefully. The young man was tall, nearly six-four, but that would still have given Simon Winter a slight height advantage. First rule, he told himself, deny him the ball. Beat him to that spot at the top of the key where he likes to receive the pass, then don’t let him turn and square up to the basket. Make him get the ball on the wing, where he has a little less room to maneuver. Force him onto his left hand - he seems to be less confident in that direction - and