by Gerry Boyle
“You should have told us, Jack. I think you know that. You should have told us and you know it.”
But McMorrow was on his way to his desk and he wasn’t listening. He grabbed his jacket and strode to the elevator, punched the button with his fist, and left.
And for the next two weeks, there were no McMorrow bylines in the Times. This was duly noted in the mayor’s office, and acknowledged privately by Conroy and Fiore.
Every morning, Conroy scanned the Times and then went to Fiore’s private office and put the newspaper on the mayor’s desk.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Good,” Fiore said. “Because it really bordered on harassment, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” Conroy said. “It was almost actionable.”
But no action was taken by City Hall. After two weeks, Fiore stopped asking about McMorrow. The mayor was focused. Confident. He joked at his press conferences, called the reporters by name. He launched a new initiative, which he called “New York City: It’s no longer a dream.”
In an editorial, the Times praised Fiore’s vision for the future. “By returning basic moral principles to policy making, the mayor has helped us all remember why we came to New York, why we stay here, why we have chosen this city to pursue our dreams, which, after all, are our common bond.”
That day, at the eleven a.m. news meeting, Ellen Jones reported that Jack McMorrow had returned to work. But he would be taking a break from metro reporting. McMorrow would be doing news features. His first assignment was a story he’d had on his list for months, Jones said. It was about a tiny weekly newspaper for sale in a mill town in Maine.
32
On the other end of the phone, Sanders waited. I didn’t say anything.
“This envelope would have been dropped off about two hours before Casey was arrested,” he said.
I still didn’t reply.
“I asked the cops about this and they said they weren’t aware of any such envelope until this morning.”
He waited. I took a deep breath. I let it out slowly. Christina turned a page in the newspaper and it made a loud crackle.
“Is that true?” Sanders said. “Did Casey deliver an envelope to you Monday morning?”
My mind tripped over possible answers. If I said yes, the police would want the envelope—and a chunk of my hide. Could I end up in jail with Butch for withholding evidence? Hindering the investigation?
Roxanne would be left dangling in the wind.
The cops would want the envelope anyway. They could be on their way over. Was I ready to turn everything over to them? Was I ready for them to know what I knew? Was I ready to show them what I didn’t know?
Donatelli, yes; Ramirez, maybe. Conroy and the Boxer, no. How could I keep them separate?
“No comment,” I said.
“Jack, this woman was very specific. A white envelope. She said a man she later identified as Butch Casey walked in a little after six and left it at the desk. Very calm and polite. Casey, I mean. Said it was a nice morning for a walk. She said she gave it to you later in the day. I’m assuming that was after you were questioned by police. Of course, she didn’t know you were connected to Butch Casey at that time. I guess she hadn’t watched the TV. She said she’d felt sick and had been in the ladies’ room or something. Is this true?”
“No comment.”
I spat the words. Christina looked at me.
“Jack,” Sanders said, the newsroom hum in the background, “I’ve got to go with this. You know that. You understand, don’t you? I mean, you’ve been in my shoes a hundred times.”
I didn’t answer. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to start talking, about anything or nothing, and every syllable would be scribbled in his notebook and before I knew it, he’d have his comment and then some.
“Jack. I’m sorry, but this is a big story. I mean, what’s in the envelope? The knife? Bloody gloves? You don’t comment and it leaves it up to the readers to fill in the holes. And they aren’t going to be thinking it’s Butch Casey’s favorite recipes.”
I swallowed.
“Okay, Jack. Here we go. One more time. Did Butch Casey leave you an envelope or some sort of package at the Parker-Meridien Monday morning?”
“No comment.”
“If so, were investigators told about this potential evidence?”
“No comment.”
I heard paper rustle.
“Did a Parker-Meridien desk clerk hand you this envelope later Monday?”
“No comment.”
“Did you receive anything from Butch Casey after you left him that night outside the Algonquin?”
“No comment.”
I waited. Christina stared. I started to formulate some sort of apology, some way of telling Sanders I wasn’t angry with him, that I knew he was just doing his job. I thought of asking him what time the hotel person had called the cops. I pieced the words together in my mind, rearranged them over and over.
And said nothing.
“Well, good-bye, Jack,” Sanders said. “We’ll talk again, I hope. No hard feelings. And if you change your mind, call me back. But not too late.”
It already is, I thought, but I didn’t answer and he hung up.
“What was that all about?” Christina said.
Before I could answer, the phone rang again.
D. Robert, I thought. Giving it one more try.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Is this Jack McMorrow?” a woman’s voice said cautiously.
“Yes.”
I waited. There was a hiss. I listened. I heard someone breathing. A click and then more hiss. And then a voice. A man’s voice.
“Jackie. I hope you’re doing okay, my friend. Is this a fucking mess or what?”
“Butch?” I said, but he kept talking.
I said his name again. Butch didn’t answer, and then I realized why.
His voice was on tape.
“I’m in here, and Jesus Christ, all I did was go in there to take a crap. Really, Jackie. You gotta believe me. And Jack, you gotta help me. I got this lawyer, but I’m gonna shitcan her. She’s saying, ‘Cop a plea. Maybe I can keep you outta the chair.’ I say to her, ‘You want to see a death sentence? Leave me in here with all these shitbums I put away.’ Jackie, everybody wants to fucking kill me. Jackie, you gotta help me. Please.”
He paused. I heard him breathing over the hiss. There was a rustle, as though someone had bumped the tape player against the phone.
“Hello,” I said.
“Jackie, the answer has to be in that envelope. I was close to something. You know how I knew? I was digging around and I got a call. ‘Back off, motherfucker, or they’ll be doing your homicide.’ Those exact words. That’s when I knew.
“Now, all those people got just as much motive as me. They should all be on the list. Where were they? Guy, his wife’s skull is smashed. Banker lady raped. Some rich kid put in a goddamn coma. Hey, there’s people who could afford to order up a hit, even on a mayor. I mean, there’s guys out there will do anything for ten grand. And some lady’s husband missing, probably got whacked. All from the same time, all blaming the mayor for screwing up when he was DA. That’s no coincidence, Jackie. Writing him letters, calling him on the phone. I didn’t even do that, Jackie. I didn’t do any of that. So help me God. But when I start looking, I get warned off.”
The tape hissed.
“Look into this for me, please. Get it to the Times. As a friend. Do anything you can, Jackie. I don’t know who else to ask. Jackie, I got nobody. I mean, I never felt so alone in my whole goddamn life. Please, believe me. And don’t tell anybody you heard from me. Somebody’s going way out on a limb to let me do this. So this is off the record. Thanks, buddy. I’m saying that ’cause I know you, and I know you won’t let me down. Now take care of yourself. Watch your back, my friend.”
There was a click. A clatter.
“Hello,” I said.
The dial tone buzzed.
“W
ho was that?” Christina said.
“Butch,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “Was that his one phone call?”
My guess was somebody who worked at Riker’s. A guard or a social worker. Or maybe somebody with the lawyer’s office. Probably cost Butch some serious money to have his message relayed. But he was in so deep. How did he think my digging into these other cases would get him out?
I put the phone down and sat there on the couch. Christina got up and walked over and put a hand on my shoulder.
“You okay?” she said.
“Yeah.”
She gave me a squeeze and walked away. I sat stone still, my mind whirling.
Butch seemed upset but not desperate. It was as though he still thought he could extract himself from this predicament. Or I could. But how?
Was Maria Yolimar at the Algonquin that night? I didn’t think so. She probably was working in the laundry, up to her elbows in dirty sheets. And did she want the mayor killed, after all these years? No, she wanted to know what happened to her husband. And she thought Fiore held the answer.
No more.
Nor did Tilbury want Fiore dead. He’d gotten what he wanted, or so he thought. Tilbury thought Lester John finally was in custody, that he finally would see some justice. When I came knocking, Tilbury had called somebody, probably the DA’s office, to make sure things were still on track.
That sent the Boxer and Conroy scrambling, but why? Because they were afraid one of these cases would clear Butch Casey? And if not Butch, then who? Had they killed their own mayor? Conroy, who worshipped Fiore, had spent years of his life in dutiful service.
Conroy couldn’t have known Butch was going to be at the Algonquin that night, because I didn’t know Butch would be there. And even if Conroy were some demon child, if his veneration of the mayor had for some reason twisted into hate, how could he have set Butch up for this? Could he have seen Butch going into the bathroom and just seized the opportunity?
Hey, there’s that jerkoff detective. Haven’t seen him in years. I guess I’ll stick the mayor now.
With what? The knife the mayor’s aide carried to all black-tie fund-raisers? The bicycle spoke in his sleeve? The ice pick he carried in the lining of his Armani suit?
There was a gap, a connection I couldn’t make. Something had brought out the hounds. And with Butch stuck in a cell and the case against him apparently rock-solid, someone still was desperate enough to chase me to Brooklyn, up to Washington Heights, across a roof with a silenced pistol.
And desperate enough to threaten Roxanne.
I couldn’t walk away not knowing why, not knowing whether I’d walked far enough. And I knew I wasn’t going to run away from New York. Not again.
I went to the bedroom and took the envelope from my bag. Scanned the papers and separated the two clips and a memo, all about Drague, the guy who’d raped the young woman on the East Side. I put those in my bag, under my clothes.
“Jackie. The answer has to be in that envelope.”
Perhaps about that much, Butch was right.
33
Ramirez didn’t think so.
“You mean this is it?” she said, flipping through the clips and memos.
“Yeah.”
“There was nothing else? Just these old newspaper stories? A couple of piddly complaints?”
“This is what Butch was working on. I told you that.”
“He kills the mayor of New York City, then walks the streets, arrives at your hotel at six in the morning to give you this? This is bullshit.”
“It was 6:48,” I said.
She’d called from her car, parked in front of Christina’s door. She was alone. Donatelli had gone home for a few hours, she said.
“He wanted to see his kid play baseball,” she’d said, pretending that made no sense at all.
“Good for him,” I said.
She looked at me, trying to figure out whether I was serious.
“The fact is, this is serious business,” Ramirez said. “You withheld evidence in the biggest homicide case in the history of New York City.”
“Okay, so what are you going to do with it? I’ve been trying to tell you about this stuff, and you made it sound like I was nuts.”
“That’s not the point,” Ramirez said. “The point is, this material was handled by the prime suspect in a killing, after the killing took place. He gave it to you. You had a responsibility to give it to us. We asked you. Somebody asked you. I remember specifically somebody asking if—”
“The DA’s boy there,” I said. “I call him the Boxer.”
“Dannigan?”
“Is that his name? I never caught it. Well, he wanted to know if there were papers or documents. It was the only question he asked in that interview. The only time he spoke. And he and Conroy were talking about it. About getting a call from the professor.”
“Well, who else is he going to call about prosecution of a crime in New York? The president?” Ramirez said.
Christina came from the kitchen with coffee and biscotti. Ramirez looked at her like she was some sort of slutty gun moll, but took a cookie anyway, holding it in her manicured claws. She chewed, then picked up a black coffee and sipped it. Putting the cup down, she jerked a thumb at Christina, who had sat down on the arm of the couch, crossed her legs in black culottes.
“Can I talk in front of her?”
“Sure,” I said.
Ramirez leaned toward me, so close that I could see the pores in her nose, the clumps of mascara on her lashes. I could see a mole on her chest where her collared blouse was open.
“I think this is a goddamn smokescreen,” she said.
I stared back.
“To cover up what?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me. But what I see here is a bunch of old stories. Some scraps of paper somebody fished out of a wastebasket at City Hall. Christ, you were a reporter. What if somebody walked into the Times and dumped this stuff on your desk? What would you do?”
She didn’t let me answer.
“I’ll tell you what you’d do. You’d stick it in the bottom drawer with the rest of the crackpot stuff. You’d say, ‘I got real stories to write.’”
“If there’s nothing to it, then what’s this?” I said.
And I tossed the windshield note onto the table.
Ramirez scowled and picked it up and unfolded it. I took a sip of coffee and watched her face for reaction. There wasn’t any. She scanned the note, put it back on the table. Roxanne stared up at the three of us.
“So you’re involved in a relationship with this woman in Maine?” Ramirez said.
“Yes.”
She looked at Christina.
“Oh,” Ramirez said. “How nice.”
“We’re old friends,” Christina said.
“I’m sure you are,” Ramirez said.
“So doesn’t that tell you something?” I asked her.
“It tells me somebody typed up this note and put your friend’s picture on it. That’s all.”
“A guy left it on my windshield in Brighton Beach this morning.”
“What guy?”
“A guy walking a dog. An older guy. The dog was small, like a little poodle.”
Ramirez finished the cookie, wiped a crumb from her mouth.
“When we get stuff like this, you know who we look at first? The person who’s supposed to be the target. You know who we look at second? The person who found the note. Or got the call. Or whatever.”
“I didn’t write this. I wouldn’t write this.”
Christina huffed.
“You think Jack wrote this note? That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. I saw him when he got back. I saw him after they called before. He was upset. To think he fabricated this whole thing, that he used those words, that’s . . . that’s ludicrous.”
Ramirez didn’t even look at Christina, much less reply.
When Ramirez spoke, it was to me.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. More than one person has this place staked out. When I went to Brighton Beach this morning, somebody tried to follow me.”
“Why?”
“They don’t want me to dig into these cases.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m finding that the perpetrators are all missing.”
“This is New York,” Ramirez said. “Dirtbags don’t usually live happily ever after.”
“Yeah, but if you had warrants for five people, and you went hunting, wouldn’t you come up with at least one or two?”
She considered it.
“Probably. If I got lucky. If they didn’t know I was coming.”
“They didn’t know I was coming. And they’re gone. I’ve got zip.”
“Who?”
“Lester John. Julio Yolimar. Georgie Ortiz.”
“The guy who killed Casey’s wife? He’s not in here.”
“Well, I include him because I know Butch does. And there’s Vladimir Mihailov.”
“I can introduce you to Mihailov. Kind of a quiet guy now.”
“He’s gone, too.”
“Jeez, McMorrow. If you want to write about dirtbags who jump bail or get blown away, I’ll give you a room full of stuff like this.”
Ramirez picked up the clips and papers and stuck them back in the envelope. She stood and I did, too.
“I’ll talk to Donatelli today. He takes you more seriously than I do. We’ll get back to you about that threat, and the DA wants to talk to you. I’ll show Donatelli this note. Where’s your girlfriend now?”
She looked at Christina and smiled.
“The one from Maine, I mean.”
Christina glared.
“She’s—she’s there,” I said.
“She’s been informed about this?”
“I’ve been trying to call her all morning. I haven’t been able to reach her.”
Ramirez paused.
“If somebody really intended what they said there—and the vast majority don’t—she should know.”
“I’m going to tell her. And have a friend stay with her.”