“Hey.” She shrugged. “It’s like you guys always say: must be PMS.”
42
She was late for softball practice. She expected Richie to chew her out. What she didn’t expect was to pull up to the curb on her motorcycle and see her son in his green jersey, baseball mitt in hand, playing catch with a stranger in the front yard.
The stranger was dressed in loose jeans and a burgundy sweatshirt, a baseball cap on his head. Though his back was to her, he exuded athletic confidence. His throws were casually well placed, his catches graceful. He heard the sound of her bike, tossed Richie a high pop, then sauntered to the curb. She frowned as soon as she realized who it was.
Marenko. What was he doing here?
Georgia unstrapped her helmet and unzipped her jacket, feeling his radiant blue gaze upon her. He was a good-looking man who didn’t seem to put much stock in it, and that alone always made her pause and take notice.
He jingled a set of keys in his front pocket. “So, you ready? We’re late for Richie’s practice.”
“We’re late?”
Marenko shrugged. “If you didn’t show up in five minutes, I was gonna take Richie and leave you a note. By the way, the kid’s got a good arm. I’d work on it, if I were you.”
“And who gave you permission to do that?”
“Work on his arm?”
“No. Drive my son to practice. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but now’s not the time.” Georgia turned to Richie. “C’mon, honey, let’s find Grandma’s car.”
“But Mom,” the boy protested.
“Richie, no whining. We’re late as it is.”
“But Mom…”
Georgia looked in the driveway, then down the street. “Where’s Grandma’s car?”
“With Grandma. Mr. Marenko’s driving us.”
Marenko rubbed the back of his neck and looked at her sheepishly. “Your mother asked if I could drive you both to practice, seeing as your car’s tied up till Monday and I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
“My mother asked a complete stranger to drive her daughter and grandson somewhere?”
He made a face. “C’mon, Scout. Your mom knows I’m a marshal. I’m doing you a favor here. You could be a little nicer about it.”
Georgia was trapped. She didn’t let Richie ride farther than around the block on her motorcycle. Her car was still impounded. And now her mother had driven off and left her no choice but to catch a ride with Mac—on purpose, she suspected. Her mother probably liked his eyes, and the absence of a wedding ring on his finger.
“The practice takes an hour.”
“No problem.” He shrugged. “That’ll give us time to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You might change your mind when you hear what I have to say.” He stuck his thumb and middle finger in his mouth and whistled for Richie. “Come on, sport.” Then he turned to Georgia. “My car’s pretty beat up, but at least it runs.”
Marenko drove a seven-year-old silver Honda Accord—probably his portion of the divorce settlement. There were still marks on the back upholstery from where his kids’ car seats used to be, and ancient, sticky stains—most likely juice—on the carpet. She used to think it would’ve been easier if she and Rick had married, then divorced. But looking at Mac’s car gave her pause. The hole left by his wife’s departure was bigger—and probably more painful—than anything she’d experienced with Rick.
In the car, Mac managed to carry on a pretty knowledgeable conversation with Richie about his beloved Mets. When Richie switched to Pokémon characters, however, Mac was left in the dust.
“You may have a Charizard, but I have a thesaurus,” he offered with a grin.
Richie rolled his eyes. “That’s an old joke.”
“Well, I’m an old guy.”
By the time they pulled up to the field, the teams were taking warm-up shots, and the bleachers were already crammed with parents. Georgia’s gait slowed and her gaze turned downward.
“What’s wrong?” asked Marenko, cupping his palms around a Marlboro and lighting it.
“I know a lot of people here.”
“So?” Then he caught her drift. “You’re uptight about them seeing you and Richie with some guy, is that it?”
She didn’t answer.
“You want me to leave? Pick you up in an hour?”
“No.” She sighed. “I just don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea…”
“You mean like you might actually have a sex life?”
“Ssshhh,” she said sharply. “Keep your voice down.”
They took a seat at the far end of the bleachers, away from the other parents, some of whom smiled and waved and let their eyes linger a beat too long on the handsome man in the baseball cap next to her.
“How’s Randy doing?” asked Georgia.
“Holding up, I guess. He’s officially on medical leave. At least he didn’t get our butts in a sling over that stunt.”
“So, Carter’s not the reason for your visit, then?”
“No.” Marenko stubbed out his cigarette, then rubbed his palms along the thighs of his jeans. “First, I want to say…I mean…what happened on the investigation…” He looked out at the worn baseball diamond and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. Richie’s team was up at bat. The boys were seated behind the chain-link fence surrounding the dugout. Marenko kicked a pebble across the sparse grass. “I can’t get the words out,” he finally admitted.
“I think the word is ‘sorry,’” said Georgia.
“Yeah…Not sorry about us, I mean. I wish…” He let the thought trail off and rubbed the back of his neck. She was tempted to fill in the spaces. She was still attracted to him, much as she hated to admit it. It was as if the very molecules in the air resonated with his being. Still, she felt foolish for the other night. He had played her too easily. She wouldn’t be such a pushover again.
“Okay,” said Georgia slowly. “I’m ready for a truce, though I don’t know what difference it makes. For all practical purposes, the investigation’s over—”
“Not for me, it ain’t. This morning? The commish told Brennan he’s gonna roast his cojones for breakfast. And when Lynch is finished with him, he’s gonna start on me.”
“Why? We made an arrest pretty quickly. Carter didn’t get us in any trouble.”
“Ralph Finney, the little shit, still won’t cop to Spring Street or Howard Beach. But he did give a nice lengthy piece of testimony last night in jail about how easy it would be to torch vacants in this city because the bureau never follows through on demolition. And he gave Red Hook and East Tremont as examples.”
“So? The proof’s gone, remember?” Georgia said icily. “You took the records from my car.”
Marenko gave her a blank look. “No, I didn’t.”
“Mac, don’t pull this wide-eyed crap with me. Those records were in my car the night Finney attacked me. Carter told me they were gone by the time the car was dusted for prints. You were the first one on the scene—”
“Yeah. And I was a little too busy saving your ass to worry about a bunch of papers.” He saw the dulled edge to her eyes. She didn’t believe him anymore. “I swear, Scout.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Honest to God. I don’t have the records. Hey, that’s the reason I’m here—to beg you not to hand that stuff over to Lynch. Now why would I do that if I had them?”
“That’s the reason you’re here, huh?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“Not the only reason…”
Her heart leaped.
“I got a trace on that call made to Ron Glassman.”
“Oh.” She should’ve known better. She brushed the moment aside, pretended it didn’t exist. Marenko, oblivious, plowed ahead.
“The call was made from a pay phone in the lobby of the Knickerbocker Plaza. Your friend Sloane Michaels’s place.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“You went to some jazzed-
up party at his hotel—”
“And I went to bed with you. And I wouldn’t qualify either of you as bosom buddies.”
He stared at her, a hurt look on his face. Now it was his turn to feel slighted. “For the record, I had a good time Friday night,” he said softly.
Georgia shielded her eyes and looked at the dugout. Richie was next at bat. “For the record,” she mumbled without looking at him, “I had a good time, too.”
Richie stepped up to the plate now. Marenko put his thumb and middle finger between his lips and whistled loudly.
“C’mon, sport, a homer. Follow through on the swing, like we talked about.”
The boy turned and smiled radiantly at Marenko. Georgia shrank into a corner. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Marenko rested his elbows on his thighs. Richie swung at the first pitch and missed. The umpire called a strike.
“I’m not doing anything.” Marenko shrugged, then shouted, “Eye on the ball, Richie.”
“Yes, you are. Playing ball with him and cheering him on, talking about the Mets with him in the car. You’re trying to win him over. You think you can buy me by buying him.”
A second pitch sailed over Richie’s shoulder. He didn’t swing, and the umpire called a ball.
“Good eye, sport,” Marenko shouted, then turned to Georgia. “You’re paranoid. He’s a sweet kid. Would you rather I treat him like dirt?”
“I’d rather you not play head games with him—or me. You get him to like you and then you’re gone. And who gets hurt by that? Not you. Him. He’s been hurt enough.”
Richie swung at the third pitch and made contact. Both Marenko and Georgia stood and cheered him on. The boy ran to first, then beamed proudly up at Marenko when he was declared safe.
“You see? He’s happy I’m here. I’m not hurting him. I wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“That’s what every man says.”
He stiffened. “And you know every man, I suppose?”
“Enough of them. I’ve worked, eaten, and slept beside them,” she reminded him.
“And you figure if you’ve seen a guy with his pants down, you know what’s going on in his head? Scout, that doesn’t work with a man any more than it does a woman.”
Georgia rummaged through her hip bag and handed him a wrinkled, legal-size white envelope. “Here. Read this.”
“What is it?”
“A letter Richie wrote to his father. He wants me to mail it. I know Rick won’t answer, and it’s breaking my heart.”
Marenko read the child’s scrawl and swallowed hard. Georgia could see that he was thinking about his own kids. “You’re gonna mail it, aren’t you?” he asked, handing back the letter.
“Yeah.” Georgia sighed. “But I already know nothing’s going to happen.” She put the letter back in her bag. “I’m showing it to you because when you tell me you’re not trying to hurt Richie, I’ll tell you that neither was his father. Intentions don’t matter. He’s hurt all the same.”
“I’m sorry,” said Marenko, shaking his head.
“Me, too.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the game. Richie got as far as second base before his team made three outs and they were in the field, the boy playing shortstop, his green jersey so large it practically skimmed his knees. Finally, Marenko spoke.
“I know this case is sort of over, but I don’t buy Glassman offing himself over Carter’s daughter, do you?”
“No,” Georgia agreed.
“And I don’t buy Carter making that call to Glassman or pushing him under a train…”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Remember you asked for a record of deliveries to Spring Street?” Marenko reminded her.
“Yeah.”
“On the Friday before the fire, four fifty-pound UPS packages were delivered to Fred Fischer, all from companies that now have disconnected telephones, post-office-box addresses that were opened with what now appear to be fake IDs, and no listing in any phone book or business directory.”
“Fred was a cokehead. These could be drug transactions.”
“Maybe. But he’s dead, and his brother Sloane ain’t. And there’s something more,” said Marenko. “At the start of this investigation, I did what I always do whenever anybody in a case has any bread—I run a check of their financial affairs: Do they have insurance claims against them? Are they in debt? Are they in trouble with the IRS?”
“And?”
“Sloane Michaels came up clean as far as insurance and debt. The IRS, though, was a little slow getting back to me. So last night I called a couple of ATF agents I go drinking with. I had them put a little pressure on their Treasury Department brothers. This morning, the agency finally faxed me the highlights of a two-foot-thick file on Sloane Michaels.”
“The IRS was investigating him?” asked Georgia.
“Better than that, Scout. For the past eighteen months, the Feds have been reconstructing what they believe was an elaborate money-laundering operation. They think Michaels sets up dummy trusts for cocaine dealers to buy into real estate he owns and manages. They give him the bread, and he hands them back clean rental income and an equity stake in some of the properties.”
“The IRS has proof?”
“An accountant who used to work for Michaels tipped them off that the guy keeps two sets of computerized records: the ones he pays taxes on, and the real ones detailing all the laundered cash and the names of recipients. The Feds think Michaels stored the real records in a computer in the basement of Spring Street where his brother lived. The agency was fixing to subpoena the computer and files when the fire broke out.”
The computer disk in Gallagher’s locker. Georgia froze. No. It couldn’t be.
“Of course, all of this is sort of moot now,” Marenko admitted. “As far as the FDNY’s concerned, Finney’s their boy. And the Feds can’t prove otherwise without the records—”
“I saw them.” It was an impulsive response. Georgia wasn’t ready to tell anyone about the disk. Not without knowing more.
Marenko frowned at her. “What do you mean, you saw them?”
“I saw a computer-generated spreadsheet listing buildings, people’s names, and dollar amounts.”
“In Michaels’s office?”
“No.”
“Where, then?” She didn’t answer. Marenko misread her silence and drew back. “You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”
“What is it with you guys? You think I sleep with every man I meet in the course of my work?”
“You slept with me.”
“And that was the only—underlined, only—time I mixed work with pleasure.”
“Really?” He brightened. “I mean about the pleasure part.”
“Press me on it and I might change my mind.”
He grinned. “So, what do you want to do with all this? It’s your case, Scout. You gotta decide.”
She sighed. “I know we’re missing something here. Finney gave up that last device too easily. He’s got something else planned for tomorrow morning. Something really big. I can feel it. Maybe Michaels is connected in some way to all of this. If we find out how, we can stop this bomb before it’s too late.” Georgia squinted past the bleachers. The practice was nearly over.
“There’s a groundbreaking ceremony for a park in honor of Terry Quinn. It’s at five-thirty today, up in Yonkers,” she said. “Michaels is supposed to be there. Want to come up with me and talk to him?”
Marenko cocked his head. “You mean you actually want me along? Hey, I’m flattered. But I can’t. I’ve gotta be at this party.”
Georgia felt a stab of pain in the pit of her stomach. She shouldn’t have cared. But she did. “A wild bash, huh?”
“Yeah. Real wild.” Marenko winked at her. “Lots of young, cute, giggly girls…Barbie dolls everywhere…” He caught her look of disappointment and laughed.
“Scout, I’m talking about my daughter Beth’s birthday party. She�
�s turning seven.”
“Oh.”
43
People are just like dogs, Ralph Finney reminded himself as he sat down on his stiff metal bunk in the suicide-watch section at the Manhattan House of Detention. Always hungry for praise and affection. So trusting. So willing to cede control. Get a dog to like you and you could bash in his skull while he licked your face. Same with people.
He scratched at the stiff polyester fabric of his bright orange jumpsuit and leaned his back against the cold beige cinder-block walls of his one-man cell. His eyes smarted from the harsh fluorescent lights of the walkway. His skin burned from the shower disinfectant. But otherwise, he wasn’t particularly troubled about being here.
He found himself surprisingly able to deal with the physical insults—the fingerprinting, the booking, being poked and prodded in every orifice. And he’d even enjoyed that little session yesterday with Suarez and Cambareri. Cambareri was a moron, but Suarez—that was a treat. Finney loved working his way below the marshal’s skin like a tapeworm, telling him things he couldn’t admit even to himself. He liked, too, the throngs of reporters who seemed to follow his every move. They turned his name—his moniker—into a household word overnight. Already, half a dozen TV tabloids were lining up for interviews. Even correctional officers were asking for his autograph.
The guard on duty—a stocky, nervous white guy named Harlen—walked to the door of his cell.
“Those fire marshals are back to talk to you some more before your bail hearing. Stand against the wall.” Harlen attached a leather belt around Finney’s waist and handcuffed his wrists to it. Then he led him down a bleak corridor to a room similar to the one they’d talked to Finney in at the precinct yesterday, except the table was gray and the walls dark brown. Hell, it made that chartreuse and plum he had painted in the TriBeCa loft look positively pleasant.
Suarez was sitting at the table again, tapping a pen nervously and smoking. Cambareri was munching a bag of chips. At the sight of Finney, Suarez rose partway and forced a wary smile. It looked like a real effort. Cambareri, his dark brown eyes weighed down by bags, wiped salt and grease off his fingers and patted Finney on the back.
The Fourth Angel Page 24