by James Hayman
That’s when the bathroom door opened and Tyler Bradshaw walked in.
Chapter 19
Art Astarita led McCabe up Clinton Street to a small coffee shop called the Pause Cafe near the corner of East Houston. Not much inside except three or four empty tables and a bored-looking kid who was fooling around with his cell phone behind the counter.
“Sit down,” Astarita instructed, pointing at the table farthest from the counter.
McCabe sat.
“You want anything to eat?”
“No. Just coffee. Black.”
Astarita went to the counter. Came back with two coffees and some kind of pastry. He set everything down and sat opposite McCabe.
Ten seconds of silence passed before either of the men, partners for more than three years, spoke. Astarita went first. “I want you to keep your brother out of the way while we try to find his kid,”
McCabe said nothing. Just pointed at the pastry. “Let me have a bite of that, will you?”
“I asked you if you wanted one.”
“Just break me off a small piece.”
Astarita did. McCabe popped the pastry into his mouth, swallowed it. Then got up to get one of his own as he debated the best way to get Art to change his mind.
When he returned, Astarita told him again, “I’ll say it one more time. I want you to keep your brother out of the way. I don’t need some grief-crazed lawyer following me or any of my people around. Trying to investigate this thing on his own.”
“So tell him to stay away.”
“I already did. I got the feeling he wasn’t listening real hard.”
“What makes you think he’s gonna listen to me?”
“You’re his brother. You’re also a cop. Tell him he’s only gonna make our jobs harder. Which you know as well as I do is the truth.”
“Only one way he’s gonna listen to me if I tell him that.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“If he knows I’m working the case with you.”
“So you want me to officially invite you in on this case? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah.”
Astarita sighed, then looked away as if thinking about it. When he turned back he said, “If it were totally up to me I’d say yes in a minute. Back in the day we made a great team. Unfortunately, I may have a problem with the captain on that.”
“Captain’s Danny Lynch?”
“Yeah.”
“I assume he’s up-to-date on what happened to Zoe and the Nakamura woman?”
“Just the basics. I filled him in before we left the building. Asked him to get a neighborhood canvass going ASAP. And have people collect and study any and all surveillance footage between the time your niece left the theater at approximately eleven p.m. and the bad guy killed Nakamura between one and two. I also told Danny about your arrival on the scene and the fact that the missing girl just happens to be your niece. From the pictures your brother sent us, she’s a beautiful young woman.”
“Beautiful. Smart. And talented. And starting to succeed in a world I once wanted to work in myself.”
McCabe’s dream as a young man had been to someday become a hotshot movie director. Unfortunately, halfway through NYU Film School, he managed to get his girlfriend Sandy pregnant, which forced him to drop out and start making a living in the family business.
“Nothing wrong with being a cop,” said Astarita.
“Nothing at all.” McCabe decided it was time to stop whining about the past. “What makes you think Danny would have a problem with me working on this?”
“You worry him. You always did. For one thing, you’re a lot smarter than he is. For another, Danny remembers what happened when you went looking for that drug dealer who shot your brother. He remembers how you went after the guy. Killed him with one slug.”
“Provable self-defense. Internal Affairs cleared me of any wrongdoing.”
“Whatever. You still shot the guy. And everyone, including Danny, figured you went looking for him—what was his nickname? Two-Times? Yeah, Two-Times—with just one thing in mind. Danny thinks you just got lucky when the little shit pulled a gun and fired first.”
“Only thing lucky about it was that he was a lousy shot.”
Astarita didn’t say anything.
“Okay, so Danny thinks I went there to kill the guy. Is that what you think too?”
“Yeah,” Art said after a few seconds. “That’s what I think. And I’ll bet it’s what you’d think if you were me and you were being honest with yourself.”
McCabe’s mouth tightened into a bitter smile at the memory of that night. Truth of the matter, he didn’t know if Art and Danny Lynch might not be right. He’d thought about it a thousand times since and still wasn’t sure what he would have done if Two-Times hadn’t pulled out that dinky little .22 and pulled the trigger. Would he have killed him anyway? He’d sure as hell thought about it on his way up to the rat hole in the South Bronx that’d served as Two-Times’s retail outlet. He’d told the review board he hadn’t gone there to kill the guy but rather to force a confession out of him. Then arrest him for dealing. Thanks to the fact McCabe was wearing a wire that night, supporting his self-defense plea, he was let off with a slap on the wrist for getting involved in a case he had no business getting involved in. And it was made clear to him that he’d probably be better off working somewhere other than the NYPD. But he didn’t know then and didn’t know now what the truth really was. Had he gone there to execute the guy who’d killed his brother? He had no good answer to that question. Maybe Astarita was right.
“Listen, Mike, I really don’t want you to tell me what, if anything, was going through your mind that night. ’Cause if you tell me you went there to kill the guy I might have to do something about it. And like most of the guys in the squad, I was glad you did what you did. The scumbag deserved it.”
“Was Lynch glad?”
“Yeah. Lynch was glad. The only thing he wasn’t glad about was that they let you get away with it. He wanted you to take the rap for it.”
“Funny. Never really understood what Danny’s problem was.”
“Wasn’t personal. Reason Lynch didn’t like you is he viewed you as competition. Fact is, you were always a better cop than he was and he knew it. Better cop than me for that matter. If it hadn’t been for the shooting, you’d probably be chief of detectives by now. Lynch is lucky he made precinct captain, and I’m pretty sure that’s as far as he’s gonna go in spite his eagerness to suck up to the bigs.”
“If Lynch brings me in to work on this and I catch the guy who’s been killing all these women, it’ll only make him look good. Specially if I promise to give him all the credit.”
Astarita sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe he’d go for that, maybe he wouldn’t.”
“You know something, old friend,” said McCabe, “I’ve suddenly got a funny feeling.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s your funny feeling?”
“That the problem of me working this case isn’t Danny’s problem. It’s yours.”
Astarita looked away as McCabe stared at him.
“It is, isn’t it?”
Art took a minute before answering. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
“The only thing I’m not sure I understand is why.”
This time Astarita didn’t respond at all.
“I’m pretty sure what’s bothering you doesn’t have anything to do with sharing credit for the bust. I know you too well for that. That means it’s got to be something else.”
McCabe waited. Art still said nothing.
“I think I know what it is. You think if I find the guy who took Zoe, and that if he’s hurt her . . . raped her . . . killed her . . . maybe injured her some other way, that I’d kill him on the spot? That’s it, isn’t it?”
Astarita sighed. “Well, you would, wouldn’t you?”
It was McCabe’s turn to be silent.
“Okay,” said Astarita, “You’re right. When Tommy was kille
d, you got involved in something that technically was none of your business. Just like this is technically none of your business. And you ended up killing the little shit who killed your brother. If it happened again, there’s no way I could let you get away with it. I’d put the cuffs on you myself. Friend or no friend.”
“I know you would. But Zoe’s not dead yet.” McCabe knocked three times on the wooden tabletop.
“As far as we know. And let’s hope it stays that way.”
A few notes from Duke Ellington emerged from McCabe’s pocket. He pulled out the phone. It was Maggie.
“I think you and Bobby ought to get back up here,” she said. “I don’t think your mother has long.”
“Have you called Bobby yet to let him know?”
“No. He’s not with you?”
“No. Is Frannie still there?”
“Yes.
“Ask her to call him. She’s got his number.”
McCabe broke the connection, stood and put on his jacket. “I’ve got to go.”
“Your mother?” asked Astarita.
“Yeah. Looks like she doesn’t have long. Listen Art, I’d rather work with you on this. Rather have the resources you could bring to bear. But if you force the issue, I’m gonna do what I can to find this guy on my own.”
“Funny. I figured you were going to say that. Okay. Let me think about it.”
“Yeah, partner. You think about it. Just try to make sure when you’re done thinking, your answer is yes.”
McCabe zipped his jacket, walked out of the Pause Cafe and headed for the subway.
Chapter 20
Alone again, Zoe sat by herself on the shower floor, knees up, face down on her arms, hot water pouring over her. In spite of telling herself over and over to tough it out, she couldn’t stop the tears. She felt so totally violated she wondered if it might not be better just to attack the bastard and keep attacking him until he killed her. But, in the end, the desire to live was too strong. She forced herself to stand up, scrubbed herself all over to remove even the slightest trace of what had just happened.
When she had finished, she climbed out of the shower and dried herself. She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she strong enough to endure a repeat performance of what Bradshaw had done? She wasn’t sure. But even as she thought it, she knew she had to at least try. For as long as it took for somebody to find and rescue her. Or even better, for her to find some way to kill Bradshaw and get the hell out of here.
She reminded herself that having sex with repugnant strangers was what escorts and call girls had to do every day or, perhaps more accurately, every night, just to earn a living. What some ambitious women in business did to earn a promotion. Fucking their way to the top, as it was crudely called. What some actresses she knew did on the so-called casting couch to win a coveted role. And if she was going to be completely honest with herself, she’d even flirted just last night with the idea of having an affair with Randall Carter. Not just because he was a smart, good-looking guy, but also because he was a well-known, well-respected star who could unquestionably advance her career. So don’t think of yourself as so high and mighty, she told herself. Since you’ve already considered using sex to get ahead, you can certainly use it to stay alive. That’s what she told herself. Sadly, she didn’t really believe it. And it didn’t make her feel any better.
She found a half-empty bottle of moisturizer in the closet and rubbed the cream into the skin on her arms and legs, wondering as she did if the other half bottle had been used by previous “guests” of Tyler Bradshaw. Sarah Jacobs? Ronda Wingfield? Marzena Wolski? She supposed it probably had.
When she had finished, she grabbed a dry towel, wrapped it around herself, walked back into the bedroom. And stopped short.
Bradshaw was there, sitting in the easy chair, feet resting on the matching ottoman. He was dressed in clothes that made him look like he’d just jumped from the pages of a not so recent Brooks Brothers catalogue.
Faded Nantucket red trousers with frayed cuffs, a pair of two-tone boat shoes and a white tennis sweater. What kind of role did the asshole think he was playing? One of Whit Stillman’s preppies from Metropolitan? No. More likely Leo DiCaprio’s version of Jay Gatsby lounging around the rooms of his mansion in West Egg, Long Island, trying hard to be what he thought Carey Mulligan’s Daisy Buchanan wanted him to be. The cool, casual rich guy who belonged in the world Daisy had always inhabited, though both knew he never really did.
Bradshaw smiled and signaled her to sit in the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“Do you mind if I get dressed first?” she asked.
“Not at all. Go right ahead. I’ve put all your things in the closet.”
“Can I have some privacy?”
“I want to watch you getting dressed.”
Zoe stared at him for a few seconds. Repressed a strong desire to tell him to go fuck himself. Instead she smiled and walked to the chair he was sitting in. Raised his head with two fingers placed under his chin and kissed him softly on the lips. “Of course, darling. If that’s what you want.”
She let the towel drop to the floor and posed for him. “This is, isn’t it? What you want, I mean?”
Tyler reached for her wrist and pulled her down on to his lap. He was already breathing hard. “Yes. It’s what I want. Very much. You are, without question, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. In fact, one I’d like to have stay with me a whole lot longer than you might have guessed.”
He pulled her to him and started kissing her, probing her mouth with his tongue. She returned the kiss, then pulled away and stood up.
“May I get dressed?” she asked.
“There’s a nice comfortable bed right over there.”
“Yes, there is. But I think you’ll have a much better time if we save it for later. In fact, I promise that you will.”
He must have known she was teasing him but she was hoping he’d like the tease.
“Of course,” he said, letting go of her wrist.
Zoe turned and walked toward the bureau, warning herself for about the tenth time not to slip out of character as the seductive and fascinating femme fatale able to entrap and ensnare this man in this strange empty mansion and manipulate him into doing what she wanted.
She pulled open a drawer and selected the sexiest underwear she could find and began putting them on in a way poor dead Desdemona never would have dreamt of. A sensuous striptease in reverse, bra first, panties second.
She reached for a clean pair of jeans.
“No,” said Bradshaw. “Not jeans. I want you to wear the white dress there. The one hanging to the right. I selected it especially for you. Very, very sexy.”
She pulled out the hanger and examined what Bradshaw had chosen for her evening costume. It was sexy. A floor-length white satin slip dress with an elegantly draped but low neckline with spaghetti straps and a low open back. The long sheath skirt was split halfway up her thigh. The dress reminded Zoe of something Carole Lombard or Greta Garbo might have worn in a 1930s romantic thriller. Or perhaps Ginger Rogers taking a spin across the dance floor with Fred Astaire. Was that what Tyler had in mind? She supposed it must be. She pulled it on and looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. Aside from the fact that the low back revealed her bra strap, she had to admit it looked fabulous.
Zoe took a deep breath and slipped the bra off and turned to face Tyler. “Shall we dance?”
“Perhaps a little later.”
“Then perhaps I should save the dress for a little later. Something you can look forward to.” She was tempted to flutter her eyelashes at him but figured that might just be overdoing it a little.
To her surprise he acquiesced. “All right. Put on the jeans if you must. But I want you in that dress later.”
Zoe slipped off the dress and pulled on the jeans along with a shirt and a warm sweater. She looked down at her bare feet. “Did you bring any socks?”
/> “Sorry. Totally forgot them. Do you need socks?”
“Perhaps not. But wouldn’t you prefer me with warm feet? You wouldn’t want me touching anything sensitive with cold toes, would you?”
Bradshaw smiled at thought. “All right, I’ll find something for you later. But for now you can go barefoot. Is there anything else you need?”
Is there anything else I need? Oh yes, she told herself silently, Uncle Tommy’s old Glock 17 would be nice. Her father had taught her to shoot with that gun and she had a good eye. Or, if not a gun, then a baseball bat. Failing either, I need to get out of this room. Get a better sense of the layout of this prison he’s got me in.
“Yes,” she said to Bradshaw. “Can I have a drink?”
He looked surprised. “A drink?”
“Yes. You know? Alcohol? Do you have any wine in the house?”
“All kinds of wine. A whole cellar full.”
“May I have some?”
“Of course.” He was smiling. Her request for a drink seemed to make him happy. Like an eight-year-old who was just told that, yes, he can have a puppy. Of course, Zoe thought, aren’t psychopathic eight-year olds exactly the kind to torture and kill the puppies they’re given?
“What kind of wine were you thinking of?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Zoe. “Perhaps a nice French red? Something really good and obscenely overpriced? Do you have anything like that?”
“I think we can find something,” he said. “Come with me and we’ll select one together.”