Nightbird

by Edward Dee

  45

  Perched fifty-five feet above the Harlem River, on the Manhattan side of the Ward’s Island footbridge, Victor Nuñez wrote Trey Winters’s cell phone number on the palm of his hand. His first call had sent Winters to Central Park. It was a move designed to confuse the police… if Winters had actually called them. It also gave him a few minutes to rest and think. Carbon monoxide from traffic on the Harlem River Drive hung in the air like a grainy black cloud.

  For almost two hours he’d worked on the bridge as rain fell. The rain had stopped, but the weather was still humid. His hands had tightened up, but everything was in place, all checked and rechecked, just as his father had taught him. Victor had well absorbed the Nuñez family’s methodical approach to safety.

  The closing of the Ward’s Island footbridge had been a blessing for him. Not only did it create the element of surprise, one that would confound any pursuer, but he was able to work without interruption. He’d attached a measured length of rope to the raised portion of the bridge. His plan was to get the money from Winters at the barricade near the Manhattan entrance, run up to the top, then swing underneath the raised portion, across to the other side.

  In seconds he’d be on Ward’s Island, where he’d stashed a bike in the bushes. No one would see him swing across the open space. Even if they did, he could ride around to the Hell Gate Channel in a matter of three minutes. If the cops were involved, they’d certainly close the exit on the Triborough Bridge, which they’d assume was the only exit. Then they’d search the island for him. But he’d be gone. He planned a swim, a short swim across Hell Gate Channel to Shore Boulevard in Queens.

  Victor had dressed in loose black clothing, under which he’d worn a wet suit. He didn’t want to go into the water, because he was having trouble breathing, his nose still swollen from Anthony Ryan’s hard head. His right shoulder ached from the blow delivered by Faye. But he had no choice. He couldn’t take the chance on the police blocking the one exit. They’d never think he’d swim the treacherous Hell Gate.

  These cops with their flabby bellies would never believe a man could cover so much ground so quickly. In less than twelve minutes he’d be across an island and two rivers, in another borough entirely. So much movement, so quickly, would create a communications and logistical nightmare for the pursuing police. If Winters had notified them.

  Alain Charnier would be proud. Victor’s plan was far more brilliant than The French Connection. In twelve minutes, while the cops were scratching their flaky bald heads, he’d be a rich man, driving south in a car no one would be looking for.

  He sat back against the barricade. And a formidable barrier it was. Like the one on the Ward’s Island side, it was built by the city, designed to keep people away from the center of the bridge. Eight feet tall, it was constructed of heavy plywood covered with thick sheet metal and ringed on the top and sides with looping barbed wire. It was an imposing challenge for any street athlete who thought he could scale it or swing around it. The flabby police could never get around it; they’d have to tear it down. Even if they did that, they couldn’t get across the open span over the river. They’d have to drive around, which would eat up their precious time.

  Victor took the portable drill from his duffel bag. He made a peephole in the plywood, so he could see whoever was coming up the ramp but they couldn’t see him. He’d make his escape with only one cop, Anthony Ryan, ever getting a good look at him. He began to stretch and go through the yoga exercises his father had taught him.

  In five minutes he’d pick up the cell phone and make a second call to Winters. Ten minutes after that he’d make the last phone call, until Winters appeared at his feet.

  46

  Winters is driving too fast,” Ryan said. “What the hell’s his hurry?”

  “Nerves,” Gregory said.

  They rode up Central Park West in light rain, both partners keeping the sneeze count. They were the third backup tail team, with two main functions: try to spot Nuñez and stay out of the way.

  “Nuñez is going to take Winters into the park,” Gregory said, tallying sneeze number seven. “Not a bad strategy. Give him an opportunity to scope out a tail. Probably figures he can lose us on foot in the woods. Eight hundred and forty acres to get lost in, foliage is dense and heavy. Unlimited points of escape. The guy’s a trapeze artist, maybe he’ll swing through the vines like Tarzan.”

  “I thought you said we’d be drinking in Brady’s before the night’s over.”

  “It ain’t over till last call, pally.”

  As Ryan studied a city map with a flashlight, Gregory wondered aloud as to why they called them trapeze “artists.” Then he sneezed for the eighth time.

  “I think I’m allergic to your jacket,” he said.

  Ryan sniffed at his nephew’s jacket. It smelled like wet wool and perfume. He felt through the pockets and came up with a rolled piece of raw cotton and a phone number written on an America West napkin. Lainie Mossberg. It was sealed with a red lipstick kiss.

  They parked in the east crosswalk at Ninety-second Street, three full blocks below the action. Lights out, engine off. Totowa Rose came on the air, her voice purring with late night implication. She calmly warned Winters not to walk as fast as he’d driven, he’d lose his backup if he did. She announced that a second phone call had ordered Winters to take the money and stand by the park wall. Rose gave the order to deploy pedestrian undercover into the park.

  Major Case leaked people into the park, one by one. A jogger in a bright orange sweatsuit. A young couple holding hands. A man in a beret walking a doddery old cocker spaniel. A few others they didn’t know, but who qualified as cop possibilities only because it was one-thirty A.M. and this was Central Park.

  “That guy in the beret always brings his dog on these things,” Gregory said. “Think he adds doggie treats to his expense sheet?”

  Ryan picked up the binoculars and looked at Trey Winters, wondering what was taking Nuñez so long. Was he out there watching, checking for police manpower?

  “You figure Faye is out there with him?” Gregory said.

  “If not here, somewhere waiting for him.”

  “I don’t know whether I told you this before, but you’ve acted like an asshole on this case.”

  “Now you know how I always feel,” Ryan said.

  People spend most of their time and energy promoting and reinforcing their self-image. The self-image of Anthony Ryan, star detective and family man, took a heavy hit. So who was he now? Was he playing a part in an old gangster movie, a guy in a suit trying to change his identity? Or was he really the Invisible Man, and nothing was beneath the gauze?

  “What did Leigh say when you talked to her?” Ryan asked.

  “What they always say: ‘He could have called.’”

  “She’s right.”

  “No shit,” Gregory said. “Women are always right, I live by that motto. But she sounded relieved. And goddamn happy she gets to spend one more night of wild passion with somebody named Bruno, the Italian stallion.”

  Gregory checked his watch. He was enjoying himself, a big Irish smile on his face. Ryan wondered how long it would be before he started singing.

  “Ten minutes now,” Gregory said. “He’s biding his time.”

  “Not anymore. Winters just answered the phone. Now he’s walking toward the car.”

  Totowa Rose said that Winters was told to drive east through the park across the Ninety-seventh Street transverse road. She ordered everyone to hold fast for a few minutes. The subject might be watching for a tail on the narrow park road. Maintain your present position. Winters started his car quickly and made the turn into the park.

  “There he goes again,” Ryan said. “Taking off fast. He did everything but leave rubber.”

  Gregory started the Buick, made a squealing U-turn, and headed south, in the opposite direction.

  “Must be that New Jersey accent,” Ryan said. “I thought Rose said hold your position.”

&n
bsp; “I take no orders from Jerseyites,” Gregory said. “Besides, you’re right, pally. He took off too fast. Like he’s trying to lose us. We’ll run parallel to him.”

  Gregory made a hard left into the park at the Eighty-sixth Street transverse road. Ryan figured Winters’s car was even with theirs, but on the other side of the reservoir. They might even be a little ahead with the speed Gregory was driving. In less than a minute they were through the park, blinking in the glitter of Fifth Avenue.

  Joe Gregory was the most instinctive tailman Ryan knew. He was vamping. Winging it. Flying through the red at Madison. Dodging pedestrians, dodging raindrops. Ryan sat up straight. They’d become boy cops again, buzzed by the adrenaline of the chase and the juice of defiance. Chug-a-lugging from the fountain of youth.

  They were halfway to Park Avenue when the excited voice of Totowa Rose ordered all personnel to resume the tail forthwith. Winters was on his way to First Avenue.

  “Good gamble, right, pally?” Gregory said.

  “You’re a gambling fool.”

  “Stands to reason. This time of night he’s going to move across town. They told him to drive naturally, that’s what he’s doing.”

  “It’s not natural, he’s flying.”

  “We’ll fly faster.”

  They caught Winters’s car going north on First Avenue. Then Winters made a hard right. Ryan had to twist around to pick up the street sign: E. 102nd Street. Winters stopped at the end of the block, just before the entrance to the Harlem River Drive.

  Gregory pulled to the hydrant and cut the Buick lights, half a block back. He sneezed for the ninth time. Winters got out of the car quickly.

  “The Ward’s Island footbridge is closed, isn’t it?” Gregory said.

  “The center section is.”

  Winters walked toward the turquoise metal ramp that zigzagged upward to a pedestrian walkway across the highway and farther up to the closed Ward’s Island footbridge.

  “He could still walk over the highway,” Gregory said. “Maybe he’s got somebody waiting in the Harlem River.”

  “Call Totowa Rose,” Ryan said. “Tell her to notify Aviation. Ask her if it’s clear enough for that helicopter. We’re going to need somebody up there.”

  “We should have brought a wheelchair,” Gregory said. “Pushing a bandaged guy in a wheelchair is the perfect cover.”

  “Let’s go,” Ryan said. “I’ll let you hold my arm.”

  47

  Victor Nuñez watched Trey Winters get out of his car, and his heart began to pound. The police weren’t following him; at least he couldn’t see them. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. He dialed the phone one last time. Winters answered, looking all around.

  “On the bridge,” Victor said. “Walk up the bridge.”

  Winters kept looking back up the street, as if expecting someone to be following. Victor couldn’t see very far down the block because of the red brick housing project. He could see only a few car lengths beyond the corner.

  “Faster!” Victor yelled.

  But he didn’t have to yell; Winters was walking fast. If Winters had contacted the police, they would be closer, Victor thought. Perhaps the Central Park ruse had worked. It was meant to stall them, throw them off their rhythm. He knew from his act the importance of timing and rhythm. The slightest hitch could be devastating.

  “Quickly!” Victor yelled in the phone again.

  Winters started jogging up the first ramp. He was carrying the bag in one hand. It didn’t appear to be heavy. Victor had no idea how heavy that much money would be. He threw his cell phone in the duffel bag and took out the waterproof backpack. Winters was close enough to hear him without it. He moved into position behind the barricade, at the hole he’d drilled in the plywood.

  Winters came around the corner and stopped. The actor stood on the platform, confused. The platform ran straight across the Harlem River Drive, then down to a narrow park that ran along the Manhattan side of the river. The only other way was halfway up the next ramp. To the barricade.

  “Up here!” Victor yelled. “Come to this wall.”

  The barricade, built by the city, was clean on Victor’s side, but he knew that on Winters’s side the sheet metal was marked with graffiti. Street names and gang logos, painted by the local thugs the barrier was meant to stop. Victor could hear Winters breathing hard. He was inches away now, only plywood separating them.

  “Throw the money over,” Victor said forcefully.

  Winters took a few tentative steps, then threw the bag with one hand. It caught in the loops of barbed wire atop the wall and fell back at his feet. Victor could hear him repeating the simple instructions over and over. He was rushing and talking to himself.

  “Throw it harder!” Victor yelled.

  The second time the bag cleared the barrier, and Victor caught it one-handed. He dropped to his knees and opened it. Then Winters started saying something that Victor couldn’t make out at first. He was begging for him to throw the letters over.

  “Hurry, please,” Winters said, sounding dry throated from the other side of the barrier.

  Victor took an envelope from his duffel bag. He threw it long and far, way over the head of Winters, so he had to run to retrieve it.

  Victor’s hands shook as he shoved stacks into plastic bags. Madre de Dios, he’d never seen so much money. The plastic bags went into his own backpack, into the sealed rubberized compartment. He slipped his arms through the straps of the backpack and tightened it.

  Then he heard the voice of Anthony Ryan. He turned the corner to the next ramp and sprinted for the rope.

  48

  Ryan and Gregory reached the platform just as Trey Winters was coming down. He looked pale and shaken. He tried to walk past them. Gregory grabbed him by the arm.

  “Where did he go?” Ryan said.

  “I gave him the money,” Winters said.

  “No kidding. But where did he go?”

  “He was behind the wall. I threw the money over.”

  “You’re not finished here,” Gregory said. “Show us.”

  Winters trembled as Gregory walked him up the ramp to the barricade. He told them how he threw the bag over the barricade. He never saw Nuñez or where he disappeared to. Then Winters begged to leave, saying he wasn’t feeling well.

  “He give you the pictures?” Gregory said.

  “He didn’t give me anything.”

  Ryan looked up toward the crest of the bridge as he struggled to put his gun away with his left hand.

  “This is no time to be shy,” Gregory said, patting Winters’s chest. “What’s this bulge in your jacket?”

  “It’s just some personal papers,” Winters said.

  “You brought office work with you? Do a little paperwork while you’re racing around the city, right?”

  Winters pulled away as Gregory reached inside his suit jacket.

  “You can’t do this,” Winters said. “That’s illegal search and seizure.”

  “I’ll let the Supreme Court worry about that later,” Gregory said. “But right now you can either give me what you have, or I can rip that jacket off you.”

  Car doors slammed on E. 102nd Street. The hollow beat of footsteps shook the ramp as boy cops made the climb in leaps and bounds. They didn’t have to ask where the action was. Totowa Rose had followed the path. Winters handed the brown manila envelope to Gregory. Inside was a stack of paper that looked like handwritten notes.

  “Where are the pictures?” Gregory said. He held Winters at arm’s length while he shoved the envelope into his own jacket pocket.

  “There are no pictures,” Winters said, snatching vainly at the envelope. “Just give those back to me. I can make it worth your while.”

  Gregory spun Winters around, shoved him against the side of the bridge, and patted him down. Ryan looked across the river, wishing he’d brought the binoculars from the car.

  “You’ll get it all back as soon as we voucher it,” Gregory said.


  Winters stormed away, looking for the Major Case commander. Ryan studied the structure of the bridge, trying to figure out how Victor Nuñez had disappeared. He thought the Mexican trapeze artist should have asked for more money, all the trouble he went through. But the NYPD would have stiffed him with an even weightier hoax.

  “He’s in the freakin’ river, isn’t he,” Joe Gregory said, looking out on the water of the Harlem.

  “No, he’s not in the river,” Ryan said. “If he planned to escape by water, he wouldn’t have set this meet on a bridge, then jumped from… what does that say, fifty-five feet. That’s crazy.”

  “He didn’t just vanish,” Gregory said. “He’s in the agua, guaranteed.”

  “What did you take from Winters?” Ryan said.

  “Looked like letters. Maybe he wasn’t lying.”

  “He’s lying. Whatever they are, he didn’t bring them with him.”

  Major Case arrived in full force. Up above, the helicopter, no longer held back by weather, circled over Winters’s car like a bird dog standing its prey.

  “We got Aviation working now, pally,” Joe Gregory said, taking the portable out of his pocket. “I’m gonna tell Totowa Rose to send that helicopter to check the water for speedboats.”

  “Speedboats?” Ryan said. “What is this, Miami Vice?”

  “I’m calling Harbor anyway.”

  “Call Jacques Cousteau if you want. But he’s not in the water. I think Nuñez either climbed up to that raised bar in the center and crawled across, or he swung over somehow. He’s on Ward’s Island, and I bet he has a car parked over there.”

  “This guy might be Superman, pally. But he can’t outrun the radio. I’ll call Rose, tell her to block the Triborough Bridge. That’s the only exit from Randall’s, isn’t it? We’ll drive over like the gentlemen and detectives we are. Then we’ll hunt him down like a dog.”