by James Tucker
Malone widened his eyes. “How did you figure that out? So quickly? And with no evidence?”
Buddy said, “That’s how it would make sense.”
“Make sense? Buddy, you’re full of shit.”
Buddy said, “It’s all wrong, Chief. The bodies. Where they were found and how. The pattern’s off.”
“What pattern?”
Buddy was about to explain, but restrained himself. He’d sound crazy because he was relying on intuition and experience from music and twenty years with the NYPD. He couldn’t give a logical explanation. And in Chief Malone’s office, logic and evidence held sway. Malone could be emotional and filled with bluster, but at heart he was conservative. He didn’t like his detectives to rely on intuition. Logic, information, evidence—these were the things Malone respected. So Buddy repeated, “Give me thirty days, Chief. It’ll get me back in the groove. I don’t want to deal with robbery-homicide today. Not after what happened three weeks ago. Okay?”
Chief Malone glared at him. Until they heard a knock at the door.
Both men looked over and saw Rachel Grove standing in the doorway.
As part of the NYPD’s Force Investigation Division, Rachel examined all firearms discharges, partnering with District Attorney Mahoney. Her father was of Swedish descent and her mother was Puerto Rican. She had curly brown hair, dark eyes, smooth skin, and a nicely curved figure. Before he’d met Mei, Buddy had asked her out for a beer. She’d smiled and said she was with someone. Buddy didn’t inquire further and didn’t ask again. Rachel always wore black or gray pants, never skirts, and her single extravagance was a yearly trip to Carnival in Rio de Janeiro. She’d been a detective—one of them—for several years.
Rachel said, “Hey, Buddy. How’re Mei and Ben?”
Buddy smiled briefly. “They’re good. You?”
“Good.”
As usual, Malone didn’t bother with greetings. He said, “Can you clear Buddy tonight?”
She looked at her wristwatch and shook her head. Turning to Buddy, she said, “Administrative review usually takes longer. You sure you want to jump back into it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”
She looked over at Malone. When the chief pointed at her, she said, “Given the highly unusual circumstances of Buddy’s last case, there’s nothing controversial and so we’ll get it done. I have some related paperwork tonight, but we’ll clear him in the morning.”
Buddy nodded. “Thanks, Rachel.”
Chief Malone stood behind his desk and crossed his arms. “Yeah, thanks, Rachel. Now Buddy can go find out what happened to an Asian couple found off Long Island while murderers go free here in the city. I’ll have to invoke jurisdiction under the governor’s roving task force, pissing off the Long Island police and everyone in our department. Thanks so much.”
Buddy and Rachel didn’t laugh or even smile at the chief’s joke, if it was a joke.
Malone’s mouth curled up on one side. He said, “One month, Buddy. Not a day more. And I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart since I’m a fucking sentimental asshole. You had a shitty time last month, so I owe it to you. And your working a case, even a stupid one, will get Mayor Blenheim off my back. Always the mayor’s asking me when’s Buddy coming back. Jesus. It’s like you shit diamonds since you’ve been on CNN a couple of times and got someone at the Gazette to write love letters to you. Yeah, in an election year, everyone loves the NYPD. By December, they’ll have forgotten us.” Malone barked out a laugh. “So thirty days, Buddy. Enjoy your vacation.”
“Appreciate it, Chief,” Buddy said.
Buddy thought Malone would further criticize him, but the large man motioned for him and Rachel to stay. Once again, Malone picked up his desk phone and dialed. “Mingo?” he said. “My office. Now.”
7
Malone cocked his head and held open his palms. He said, “You really think these are homicides?”
Buddy nodded. “They might be.”
“Might?”
Buddy crossed his arms. “No promises.”
A moment later a young Hispanic man in his early thirties entered Malone’s office. Buddy recognized him as Mario Mingo. He was handsome but carried a few extra pounds—more extra pounds than Buddy, who stood about six foot three, with Mingo several inches shorter. Mingo had medium-length jet-black hair brushed neatly into a side part. His eyes were dark and his smile easy.
“You called, Chief?” Mingo said. He had a reedy, excitable voice.
Still looking at Buddy, Malone said, “Here’s your new partner. Mingo, you’re headed to the Nineteenth Precinct.”
Buddy turned to the younger man and offered his hand. His new partner had a firm handshake, he noticed, trying to warm to the young detective. Mingo’s reputation was that of a solid detective who was enthusiastic and clean, but Buddy thought he might be too slick, might not have the patience to get into a case’s details. And it’s in the details, Buddy knew, that a detective finds the pattern that solves the case. But he hoped that maybe Mingo could improve, could be an asset. No, he had to do more than hope. He had to believe in the younger man. He had to trust Mingo with his life.
Malone held up a meaty forefinger as his eyes bored into Buddy’s. “The bodies from Long Island will be brought to OCME,” he said, referring to the Manhattan Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. “Take a look. But so help me God, you’re on a short leash.”
8
As Buddy left Malone’s office, he pulled out his phone and dialed Mei.
“Buddy? Where are you?”
He stopped, could barely hear over the noise of the corridor where he was standing. Other detectives, clerks, secretaries, and cops passed him as he stood against the wall watching them pass but not really seeing them.
He said, “I’m at work.”
“You’ll be leaving soon?”
“Probably, yeah. This thing turned out to be more than I expected. Two bodies were found in the Atlantic. Everyone else thinks I should let it go. They were suicides or victims of an accident, people are saying. But I think it’s a double homicide from here in the city.” He looked up, suddenly sensing people nearby who’d overheard him. He saw the backs of a man and woman he didn’t recognize walking away from him. He glanced left, and an office door closed abruptly. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’m sorry for leaving you and Ben at the courthouse.”
“Don’t apologize to me. But talk with Ben tonight. He’s still upset after talking with Judge Miles, and he’s worried he said the wrong thing and the judge will take him away from us.”
A hard, angry feeling welled up within him. Take him away? It’s not going to happen, he told himself. No fucking way Ben’s going to live with people with hearts of ice. No fucking way.
But now he was at One Police, he’d gotten the case, and in a nice way, Mei was letting him know that he’d failed. He knew she was right.
Goddammit.
He heard Mei’s confused voice. “You’re on leave, Buddy. How can you work a case?”
“They’re reinstating me tomorrow,” he told her, digging into his left trouser pocket. He felt for the medallion from the dead man he’d seen on the fishing boat and lifted it up to the light.
Mei was silent. He knew she wasn’t happy, knew she believed he needed a break longer than three weeks. After what he’d been through. What he and she and Ben had been through.
He said, “Hang on a second.”
He pressed the home screen button on his phone, touched the photos icon, and found the image of the medallion. After he texted it to Mei, he raised the phone to his ear and said, “I just sent you a photo. Would you let me know if you recognize it?”
She said nothing.
He waited, thinking she was furious. He half expected her to hang up.
Yet a moment later she said, “I don’t read hanzi, the characters used for writing, but I’m certain this is Chinese. You might go to Chinatown and show it in the jewelry stores. But please do it tom
orrow. I’m going to leave the gallery now and pick up Ben. Don’t be late tonight.”
When they’d ended the call, he turned to his left. Two men he didn’t know were walking away from him, one with light hair and the other with dark. A third strode past, glanced into Buddy’s wary eyes, then looked away. Buddy waited a moment, and the man passed. Buddy turned to the right. An attractive black woman walked toward him, and behind her he could see the retreating figure of a woman with gray hair. He recognized no one, but all of the retreating figures would have heard parts of his conversation with Mei.
But which parts? he thought. And why would they care?
He realized he’d been holding his breath, listening. He heard nothing but the typical office sounds. Yet he felt something, as when a bass in an orchestra played so softly it was almost undetectable, but the note played was in a minor key and spread unease throughout the concert hall.
They don’t care, he told himself about those who might have overheard his conversation with Mei. This is nothing but a boring missing persons case. Right?
9
Buddy glanced at the darkening sky and kept going. He walked away from One Police, buttoning his navy-blue overcoat, putting on his wool hat, scarf, and gloves. Instead of heading west toward Centre Street, where he could more easily catch the 6 train to the Upper East Side, he began walking north toward the Spring Street station.
He did his best thinking on the streets. The sidewalks acted as a tonic to him, a drug that cranked up his brain while helping him focus. But tonight he wouldn’t go far. He had to be home for dinner. And it was too cold: twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit, with a fierce wind snaking between the buildings.
A second time, he looked up at the sky. For a week the days had been nothing but gray. The color matched his mood. He shook his head at the memory of the visit with Judge Miles that morning. He didn’t understand how the judge could go against the decision of Ben’s guardian, Ray Sawyer. But then he’d never understood how lawyers could twist the law to do what they wanted. When he got home, he’d talk to Ben about what Judge Miles had said, if she’d said anything. Buddy thought she had a great poker face. He didn’t know where he stood with her, and he didn’t like that feeling.
Lowering his head against the cold, he continued on to the Spring Street station. That would take him home, and his family—what he hoped would be his family—would be complete.
Though maybe not for long.
Passing a liquor store on Cleveland Place, he looked through the windows at the brightly lit shelves of bottles made of clear, green, or blue glass. In the windows’ reflection of the street, he saw a man in a lightweight tan jacket, a dark knit hat, and a scarf, but no gloves. The man had one hand at his side, the other in the pocket of his jacket. The man walked several yards behind Buddy, and his image disappeared wherever the windows were covered by banners advertising beer, wine, and liquor.
Buddy anticipated tonight. Sitting in their living room and having a drink, a Jack Daniel’s for her, a Michelob for him, while Ben did his homework at the small desk in his bedroom. And later, after Ben was asleep, going to bed with Mei. He liked to leave a faint light on in the master bathroom so he could see her, admire her.
The burn of wanting filled him, and he quickened his pace.
He saw two people walking in his direction: a twentysomething in a Carhartt jacket, jeans, and boots, and an older, hunched woman dressed in a long coat that extended nearly to her ankles. Both of them bundled up on a frigid evening. To his left was a small, triangular park with pavement, trees now without their leaves, and benches, all mostly surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. In warmer weather, people would be sitting there, smoking, drinking surreptitiously, waiting for buses, flirting, skateboarding. But in tonight’s cold, it was empty.
At the intersection of Lafayette and Spring, Buddy turned the corner in front of the Duane Reade store with its high stone façade and neoclassical columns. Ten yards ahead on his right were the steps down to the Spring Street station. Instead of proceeding down the steps, he passed the entrance and slowed his pace, stopped, and stood with his back against the building.
Something about Tan Jacket bothered him. Why wear a lightweight jacket in this cold and also have a hat and a scarf? he thought. Doesn’t the man own a heavy jacket? And why had Tan Jacket’s left hand been at his side, exposed to the cold, while his right hand was tucked into the right side pocket of his thin jacket?
Buddy had glimpsed the pocket for only an instant, but now he tried to recall its shape. He breathed in and focused. The pocket had been filled, but with more than just a hand. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter? An item bought at a nearby bodega?
No. The contour wasn’t right.
Most people, even most cops, wouldn’t have noticed. But he’d been trained since childhood to notice patterns in which even the smallest detail was out of place. This detail, he’d become certain, was wrong.
Buddy looked left, at the corner. Tan Jacket stood there, looking straight ahead. Buddy moved his hands in front of him, pulled off his right glove, and reached into his overcoat for his Glock. This gesture was second nature, but today the gun wasn’t there.
Shit!
Now he remembered. Malone would give it to him tomorrow at his reinstatement. But he had the baby Glock in his waistband holster.
Again he checked the street corner. Tan Jacket had turned and was staring at him.
10
He pushed off the building wall and began walking along Spring Street. He didn’t slow down. Holding his hands in front of him, he removed his left glove, put both gloves in his overcoat pockets, and dropped his hands to his sides in as natural a way as he could. He knew that Tan Jacket could shoot him in the back. He also knew that in the cold the stream of pedestrians was sparser than usual, so there might be nobody between him and the pursuer he estimated was fifteen feet behind him.
He pivoted left and jogged through traffic, across Spring Street and north on the west side of Mulberry Street, putting more distance between himself and Tan Jacket.
This was a commercial and residential block, the left side of the street marked with a few parked cars and short staircases descending into lower level offices or living spaces. A few trees barren of leaves. Adequate light only between streetlamps. He saw places to hide but no good ones. It didn’t matter, because a bad hiding place was better than getting shot in the back. He quickened his pace, noticing especially steep concrete steps—about five or six of them—down to a below-grade real estate agent’s office. In one motion, he grabbed the metal railing, swung himself around, and dropped down the steps.
Hearing nothing, he bobbed his head upward and glanced down the sidewalk.
His face was nearly blown off by a single muffled gunshot.
Fuck.
Tan Jacket was using a suppressor. And he was close.
Buddy thought quickly. One guy, or more?
He wasn’t sure.
Taking the Glock out of the IWB holster, he felt the familiar weight of the gun. He was good to go.
He backed up a pace so that he was pressed against the exterior wall of the office. Again he raised his head just enough to look over the steps. A flash of fire, the sound of a bullet, concrete shards flying up around him.
Crouching again, he assessed what he’d seen. Tan Jacket, about twenty yards from him, standing behind another descending concrete staircase. Tan Jacket didn’t have a clear shot as long as Buddy remained low.
A standoff, Buddy thought. You move, you die. Unless . . .
He looked up Mulberry and saw nobody coming south toward him. He glanced right, around the steps, and saw a group of four people—one man and three women—walking north from behind Tan Jacket’s position. They didn’t seem alarmed by Tan Jacket, who, from their angle, must be standing harmlessly by the concrete steps. With each stride toward Buddy, they formed a screen from Tan Jacket.
But only for the width of the sidewalk. There were no parked cars near him. He
needed something to protect him once he reached the street.
He looked left and saw a BMW X5 SUV, its bluish-white xenon headlights sweeping along the asphalt as it drove south—the wrong way on the one-way street. As the SUV approached slowly, Buddy noticed its Illinois license plate.
Tourists, he thought.
To his right, the pedestrians approached. Ten feet away, they still hadn’t noticed him.
To his left, the BMW drew closer.
Buddy’s pulse spiked, but he controlled his adrenaline by counting silently. One. Two. Three. Four.
He bent low and ran in front of the four pedestrians. Crossing the sidewalk, he slid behind the SUV.
But it was moving, even accelerating. If he didn’t stay connected to it, he’d be exposed and dead.
Standing, he leaped onto the back of the SUV, grasping the spoiler above its rear window, his feet not finding purchase on any bumper. So he hung there, his head lying sideways on the window, his feet dragging on the asphalt. As the SUV moved, he glimpsed Tan Jacket crouching in the stairway, staring north to where Buddy had been.
Thirty feet farther, and he dropped from the BMW and ran to the west side of the street. Now he was behind Tan Jacket, and Tan Jacket was exposed.
Buddy crouched in another stairway. He listened for footsteps rushing toward him, but there were none. Mulberry was strangely silent.
He took out his mobile phone and texted his half brother, Ward: In the shit. Pick me up in Little Italy on Mulberry, 50 feet north of Spring.
Not waiting for a response—Ward could be in London, for all Buddy knew—he put away his phone. Still breathing rapidly, he waited until he got his adrenaline under control. Then he brought his head around the stairwell.
At first he couldn’t see anything but a seemingly empty stairwell down to a basement apartment. He felt a chill on his neck and wheeled around.
Yet there was no one behind him.
He exhaled. Okay. Stick with the plan.
He edged north along the buildings on the west side of Mulberry. Inch by inch, until Tan Jacket came into view.