Shattered Angel

by Baird Nuckolls

  The man lowered him to the ground even as Billy was trying to rise, crying “My god, my god.” He tried to reach out for the oilcloth bundle, to save the money, but he couldn’t lift his arm. It wouldn’t move. He could only watch as the man in the tan suit scooped it up, tucking it under his arm like a football, before he broke for the stairs. A ringing in Billy’s ears grew until it blocked out the sound of the train departing; he closed his eyes. There was more shouting, a call for help and police, but Billy knew it was too late. He and Barlow had not even had a chance to fight.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Morelli

  Morelli left the Bronx and headed downtown. He took the Third Avenue El down to the Grand Central terminal. By this hour, everyone in the city seemed to be on their way somewhere. The streets south of midtown were choked with trolleys and horse-drawn wagons, with the occasional automobile trying to bully its way through. The sidewalks were just as crowded. There were older women in fur coats and hats mingling with young ladies pushing prams. Morelli watched a pair of cops walk by, eating apples they probably didn’t pay for. They in turn were eyeing a group of young men strutting along like they were the cat’s meow. Morelli remembered feeling like that once, thinking everybody alive over thirty years old had one foot in the grave. Then his dad had died and it cured him of that kind of thinking.

  Morelli passed the grand New York Public Library on Forty-second Street at the site of the former Croton Reservoir and then continued around the construction at Bryant Park in the next block. The city had just started digging another subway tunnel. Morelli wondered if the entire island would soon be riddled with tunnels. He continued walking west and north until he reached Forty-fifth. The address that Maggie had mentioned was a ramshackle wooden building leaning shoulder to shoulder to a warehouse. He walked down the opposite sidewalk, keeping his eye on the building, when he caught the smell of something fishy. The salt tang and underlying rot of oysters, to be exact. It smelled like the Hudson had washed up to Ninth Avenue and then retreated, leaving behind a scum of seaweed and sea foam.

  He had no idea which apartment he was looking for, so he started at the top. He knocked on a few doors and received some threats, but mostly silence. On the third floor, in the back, the door swung upon at his knock. He glanced inside, looking for signs of the tenants, but the flat was empty. This could be the cousin’s apartment. Morelli stepped in, looking for any sign of Maggie’s cousin or her missing brother, but there was nothing more than an empty glass on the floor beside the dilapidated settee. The rest of the furnishings held little interest—some clothes on pegs, a pot hanging on the wall beside the stove. A bare table and chairs. Worn family heirlooms probably. Morelli closed the door behind him and headed south.

  At Twenty-fifth Street, he cut over by Pennsylvania Station and continued on Seventh Avenue down toward Washington Square. There seemed little point stopping at Eats; Mickey probably wouldn’t go there when Maggie wasn’t at work, but he wanted to cover all his bases. He slipped down the steps and into the café quietly, but there was no one there he recognized, not even the lantern-jawed older woman from before. He didn’t bother asking any questions.

  Morelli walked south until he got to the Downing Street apartment building. Climbing the stairs slowly, he had to stop and catch his breath. All this running around town was wearing him out, particularly after staying up half the night and chasing jewel thieves.

  The door to number 408 was locked and no one answered his knock. He listened with his ear to the door, sure he would hear something if there was anyone inside, but nothing moved. He banged on the door one more time, but only succeeded in drawing a shout from the neighbor down the hall to shut up. Morelli turned and banged on the door that had just closed.

  “Shut up and get lost.”

  “Excuse me.” Morelli’s voice was calm and gentle. He drifted into a bit of Irish lilt. “Have you been seein’ the fellow in 408, anytime recently?”

  The door to 411 remained closed. “I’m asking for the church. Father Doyle, ya know him?”

  The door opened a crack. “Don’t know Father Doyle and don’t know any git down the hall. Quiet down and get lost.”

  Morelli saw the flash of a metal stick swinging back and forth in the man’s huge hand. Nothing to be gained here. He muttered an apology and headed back downstairs. Zero for three. He wasn’t sure where else he could look yet. He decided to go back to Otten’s and call Danny. Maybe Maggie had some new ideas.

  At the corner of Sixth Avenue, he stopped to buy a paper from a newsboy who was screaming “Special edition.” Morelli scanned the headlines, looking for any word of Angel’s murder, but there was nothing. The main headline was something else altogether.

  “HOLDUP MEN MURDER TWO BANK RUNNERS, ESCAPE WITH $47,416.” In smaller print, a subhead read “Messengers Shot Down Without Warning on Stairs of BMT Elevated in Brooklyn” Details followed. Apparently, one of the robbers had taken a bullet in the confusion and died at the scene. The others fled in a black sedan. The car, bearing bloody fingerprints, was found abandoned a mile and a half away. The robbery was done at a busy station and there were witnesses who gave a description to the police.

  He tucked the paper in his pocket and started walking again.

  When he got to the jewelry store, it was still closed and no one answered his knock. Otten must have gone home or he was still out talking to the locksmith. Either way, Morelli wasn’t going to get to use the phone. He decided to go upstairs and wash up. A change of shirts might make him feel better. Maybe even shine the mud off his shoes from last night. They were a mess after his dash through the rainy muck of the alleys.

  He trudged up the stairs and was surprised to find a light on in his office. He didn’t remember leaving it that way. He opened the door cautiously.

  “There’s the mug we’ve been waiting for. Grab him.”

  Two men in police uniforms surrounded Morelli and pulled his arms violently behind him. A pair of cuffs were smashed into place.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing in my office?”

  “Don’t play coy with us, Morelli.” The Bull stepped up to Morelli and breathed in his face. He looked like he wanted to slug him. A vein throbbed in his forehead and his face was red. “Search him.”

  The man behind him patted Morelli down and stopped when he got to the right pocket of his coat. He pulled out Morelli’s service revolver and handed it carefully to the Bull.

  “Well, well. What do we have here? I think this might just be the piece that put a hole in our stiff. What do you think, Flarrity?”

  Morelli noticed the other detective, who had been crouched down behind Morelli’s desk, and now rose and walked toward them.

  “Could be.” Flarrity took the gun and sniffed it. “It’s been fired recently and we found 0.38 shells at the scene. Too bad.” He stepped around the Bull and looked at Morelli. “I’m disappointed in you, Morelli. I thought you were going to call me when you found Mickey. Not kill him.”

  He turned back and kicked at a foot lying on the floor behind the desk. Morelli couldn’t be sure, but there seemed to be a dead man in his office, one who hadn’t been there a few hours earlier. He leaned over the desk and caught a glimpse of red hair before the goon behind him pulled him back by the wrists. It looked like he’d found the missing Mickey McElwaine.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Jail

  No one said anything more to Morelli as they hustled him out of his office and into a squad car. At the Third Precinct, they took his tie, belt, wallet and watch, and had him fingerprinted. The sergeant at the desk seemed to think it was very funny when he was led off to be strip-searched, and then put into a holding cell. Morelli didn’t know him, but wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the talk of the station that “straight-arrow” Morelli was being brought in. They left him alone for several hours, before he was collected, cuffed, and taken to a small interview room. Flarrity was already there when he was led in.

 
; “Unlock him,” Flarrity directed the officer.

  “You sure? It’s against regulation.”

  “He used to be a cop. He knows how to behave himself. Don’t you, Morelli?”

  “Sure, I’m very well behaved.”

  Flarrity nodded and the officer released the cuffs. “Sit down, Morelli.” He nodded again and the officer left them alone. Morelli sat, rubbing his wrists.

  “So, you didn’t call when you should have.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Flarrity.”

  “Don’t give me that. We found Mickey McElwaine dead on your office floor and your gun recently fired. What else do I need to know? I just wish you’d called me when you found him instead of shooting him in the head.”

  “I didn’t kill him, Flarrity. I’ve never even seen him before. Not even now, if you don’t count the shoes.”

  “Did you go looking for him? Or maybe you got involved with the redhead and he didn’t like it. Is that why he came to your office? To tell you to stay away from her?”

  “She’s his sister, and I wasn’t involved with her. She came to me, looking for him. And I couldn’t have killed him because I was with her up in the Bronx.”

  “Is that so? When was this?”

  “Since this morning, early.” He didn’t want to say anything about Otten and the jewelry store robbery since Otten hadn’t reported it, so he decided to stick to the part about Maggie. “Look, she came to my office and was scared. I took her uptown to stay at Danny Petucci’s place. Then I came back here and discovered you guys in my office.”

  “So, you’re telling me that you haven’t been to…” Flarrity looked down at his notes, “… Fifty seven Downing Street in the past two days?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there. Looking for Maggie.”

  “I got witnesses said you were snooping around after Mickey. And that you spent time there with the redhead. I’ll bet that made him mad. Mad enough to come after you, some spic taking advantage of his sister.”

  “I never saw the guy. I’m telling you. That was about my client, not Mickey McElwaine.”

  “Oh yeah, your mysterious client. Just who is she?”

  “I’m still not gonna tell you that. I was with Danny Petucci this morning. Call him, he’ll tell you. And let him know I’m sitting here, will ya?” Morelli crossed his arms and glared at Flarrity. This was getting ridiculous.

  “Maybe I’ll do that, but maybe not. I got you, I got the gun. I don’t think I need Petucci or the redhead.” Flarrity picked up his notes and knocked at the door. “Put him away,” he muttered as he left the room. The young officer came in and recuffed Morelli, pushed him down the hall and left him in his cell.

  “Hey, what about the cuffs?” Morelli yelled, as he turned and locked the cell door.

  “Just take it easy. You used to be a cop. You know how to behave yourself,” he said with a sneer and left.

  Morelli spent the time listening to the rhythm of the precinct. It had been two years since he last worked for the NYPD, but the sounds were still ingrained in his memory. The sounds of the shift changing, the evidence locker door clanging shut, drunks being shoved into the tank to sleep it off. He wondered what life would have been like if he hadn’t been forced out. He’d grown up with a strong sense of right and wrong from his father. The war had given him a familiarity with the chain of command and carrying a gun, although he’d never gotten used to using it. In the city, it usually was enough to show that you had it. Most people backed down in the face of a cop with a gun. He was happy with walking the beat; when he had become a detective, he was sorry that his father hadn’t lived to see him succeed. Later, he was equally glad he didn’t see his disgrace. Forced out for being too honest, too interested in doing the right thing.

  “Hey, Morelli, get up.” Flarrity was standing outside the cell. “Gimme your shirt.”

  “What the hell for? I didn’t have anything to do with that kid’s death and you know it.” Morelli argued, but he got to his feet and came to the door. “At least take these damn cuffs off.”

  “Why are you still wearing ‘em?”

  “Oh, so I won’t get any ideas, I guess. Did you call Petucci?”

  Flarrity opened the door and pulled Morelli around so that he could unlock the cuffs. “Now gimme your shirt.”

  “What are you looking for? Blood? You’re not gonna find any because it isn’t there. Just a few days of my sweat and grime.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Morelli.” He was about to close the cell door, when Morelli put his foot in the way.

  “Wait. Can I use the can? Make a call? Get something to eat? You’ve had me in here by myself for a long time.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll send someone in to take a look. Just take it easy.” He pushed Morelli back into the cell and slammed it shut. The lock clanked as he turned it.

  Morelli watched him walk away and put his jacket back on over his bare chest. He wasn’t going to sit here half naked, that was for sure. He buttoned up and realized there was something in the pocket. The paper from earlier in the day. He pulled it out and started reading to pass the time.

  Morelli started with the robbery news on the front page. He was amazed at the amount of money involved. What were the bank employees doing carrying that sort of loot around on the BMT? The paper went on to label the robbers as “cold-blooded killers.” The article explained that the two men worked for the West End Bank of Bath Beach, a subsidiary of the National City Bank. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t sure.

  The robbery occurred at the Fifty-fifth Street and New Utrecht Avenue station of the West End Line in Brooklyn. There were three robbers, a driver, and a stolen Cadillac. Two bystanders gave chase, but their Ford touring car couldn’t keep up.

  The article suggested that the robbery might be tied to others in the area, but didn’t give any specifics. It sounded more like an inside job to Morelli. Someone had to know when that money was going to be transferred. He figured they’d solve it quick by putting someone at the bank in the hot seat.

  ***

  Despite what Flarrity said, the night passed without another visitor. The longer he sat there, the thirstier Morelli got. He thought they must have forgotten he was in there. He dozed off a few times, but could never get comfortable. Finally, the door at the end of the hall opened and Danny Petucci walked in.

  “Hey, Petucci, get me outta here.”

  “Damn it, Morelli, what did you do to piss those guys off?” He walked down to Morelli’s cell and stood opposite the door. “What have you been doing since you left my house yesterday?”

  “Nothing, Danny. After leaving Maggie with you, I went looking for Mickey McElwaine in all the places around Manhattan that I could think of. Finally, I got back to my place and they were swarming over my office. There was a stiff under the desk and they said I shot him.”

  “Well, did ya?”

  “Hell, no. I spent the night guarding Otten’s store and then I brought the redhead to see you. I never saw her brother. You know that. Is she okay? She still at your house?”

  “Nah, she left as soon as the cops called me to ask about you. Said she was going to her cousin’s.”

  “What? You didn’t make her stick around? She’s going to get hurt. There are too many bad things going on right now for her to be running around. I gotta find her before Hart or the cops do.”

  “I don’t see what you’re going to do about it, sitting in there.” Petucci gestured at the tiny cell. It contained an iron bed and a bucket, but nothing else. He had a funny grin on his face.

  “Course, maybe we should get you out of here.” He dangled a key on his finger and Morelli jumped up.

  “I could kiss you, Petucci.”

  “Eh, none of that.” He worked the key in the lock and opened the cell door.

  “How did you arrange this?” Morelli stepped out quickly and pulled Danny along the corridor.

  “Let’s just say, I know a guy. They can’t seem to f
igure out upstairs exactly what to do with you, so I said I’d help ’em out. Flarrity’s gonna be pissed, but it gives you some time to clear things up.”

  “Thanks, Danny. You’re a pal.”

  Together, they walked up the stairs and out the front door as if they knew exactly where they were going. Morelli had flipped his jacket collar up to cover the fact that he was shirtless. Once outside, the wind cut right through him.

  “I need to get some fresh clothes.” He turned in the direction of his office, but Petucci stopped him, pulling him into a vacant doorway.

  “Wait a minute. You can’t go home. The cops are going to go there first. And you can’t come home with me, ’cause they’ll be looking for you there, too.”

  “You’re right. I can’t go to Downing Street to find Maggie, because they have that place under watch, too.”

  “She said she wasn’t going there, anyway. She’s gone to the cousin’s, remember?”

  “Damn. I don’t have time to go looking for her all over town.”

  “Morelli, there’s something I think you should know.” Danny fiddled with his car keys and looked at his shoes.

  “Spit it out, Petucci.”

  “We were talking over breakfast, see, and I noticed how she looked and all. Something wasn’t quite right.”

  “I don’t get what you mean. Is she sick?”

  “Not exactly. She’s gonna have a baby.”

  Morelli blew out a sharp breath. “That’s a tough thing. I’m guessing it must be Hart’s kid.”

  “Yeah, and she doesn’t seem too happy about it.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Sort of. I mean, I been around that block with my wife. I remember what it was like: pink around the gills sometimes, a little puffy in places, sick in the morning. I said it weren’t a big thing, but she started to cry. Said it was killing her.”