I let everything he’d said sink in. It was a lot to digest. More importantly, putting aside the “corporate overlords” paranoia, I had to ask myself if I believed him. If Evan McCloskey was indeed this behind-the-scenes power-broker, as Henry Stubbs had maintained as well, could I believe that Dave Parnelli had never been a part of it? That he’d intuited the true nature of the firm and decided he couldn’t stay?
“I know what you’re thinking.” Parnelli pondered his empty glass as though it were Yorik’s skull. “And, yes, you can believe me. I can’t prove a thing, but McCloskey, Singer is corrupt to its core, and I couldn’t in good conscience stay in its employ. Maybe all big private firms are like that. I wouldn’t know. As I say, I think I’m destined to be a public employee for life. Seed of my poor old man, the quasi-Socialist. God rest his soul.”
He grew quiet. Sullen. Maybe thinking about his late father. Or the choices he’d made in life. Maybe thinking about nothing at all.
Regardless, I had two questions to ask.
“Do you know the name Henry Stubbs? Worked for the Federal Trade Commission?”
“Never heard of him.”
That had been the easy one. Next question was riskier. “You mentioned that McCloskey’s firm often threw its support, financial and otherwise, behind friendly political candidates. People who could be bought. Ever hear anything in that regard about Lee Sinclair?”
“Not a peep.” He looked at me askance. “What kinda crap are you still tryin’ to sell?”
“I’m not selling anything. Just asked a question.”
“Yeah? Well, watch your goddam mouth, that’s my boss you’re talkin’ about. And probably the future governor.” He tapped his empty glass on the table, agitation mounting. “Christ, Rinaldi, what are you gettin’ at here?”
“Not sure. I’m just wondering—”
“Wonderin’ what? You tryin’ to get me in the shitter with Sinclair? Get me jammed up or somethin’? What’s with all these questions, all of a sudden?”
“Jesus, Parnelli, get a grip—”
But he just grew more belligerent. A drunk’s outrage. “Listen, asshole, do you have somethin’ on Sinclair—somethin’ real—or are you just shootin’ off your mouth? I mean, everybody knows there’s bad blood between you two—”
I grabbed his forearm, forced it down on the table.
“I said, chill out. Now.”
“What the fuck—?”
He stared, taken aback. Unsure of his next move. Or even if there was any to make.
He let out a long, slow breath. Calming himself.
“Let go of my goddam arm, will ya?”
I kept my grip on his arm. At the same time, I was suddenly aware of the few other customers in the lounge. All looking our way. Embarrassed. Concerned.
Parnelli noisily cleared his throat.
“Enough already, okay, Rinaldi? End of rant.”
I hesitated.
“I mean it, Danny. I’ll chill out.”
I nodded finally. Let my hand fall away from his arm.
Parnelli pulled it back, rubbing it where I’d held it. Offering me a wounded, indignant look. Followed, strangely enough, by a broad wink.
Then he swiveled in his seat, gaze sweeping the room. As though challenging our onlookers to say anything.
“That’s it for tonight’s entertainment, ladies and gentlemen.” Voice booming. “Show’s over. Feel free to go back to your meaningless little lives.”
Ignoring a few audible grumbles from the other side of the room, Parnelli turned back around and gave me a boozy, satisfied grin.
“I assume this impromptu meeting is adjourned?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Cool.” Raising his voice again. “Now where the fuck is that big-titted bitch with the smart mouth? A guy could die of thirst around here.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Ten minutes later, I said good-bye to Parnelli. I took the elevator down to the parking lot, got my car from the valet, and rolled into sluggish night-time traffic. I’d just cranked up a “best-of” Nancy Wilson CD when my cell rang. Eleanor Lowrey. Upset.
“Danny, thank God I got a hold of you.” I heard an urgent, contentious swell of voices in the background.
“What is it?”
“It’s Harry. We’re all here at the Federal Building. Biegler, Alcott, and the rest of the task force leaders. Even the Assistant Chief. Everybody but Harry. Biegler’s goin’ nuts.”
“I thought Harry squared things with Biegler. Said he had his act together now…”
“He did. Which is why Biegler’s so pissed. Look, it’s crazy here. We’ve got units gearing up for the debate tomorrow night, a whole tactical operation underway. Plus the teams still assisting the FBI in the hunt for Ronny Baxter. Meanwhile, the Mayor’s screaming at us to find the prick and bring him in. Like yesterday.”
“Rotten time for Harry to pull a no-show. Again.”
“I know. Now listen…” Her voice fell to a whisper. I heard a door softly close, the murmur of voices fading. “I tried calling Harry on his cell, but he set it to switch over to his home phone. Who’d guess he even knew how to do that? Anyway, I left a couple messages on his answering machine, but never heard back. Then I tried the bar.”
I knew she was referring to the Spent Cartridge, a venerable cop bar off Liberty Avenue.
“Was Harry there?”
“Yes. Looks like he still is. The bartender answered the phone, told me Harry was sitting alone at the end of the bar. On his fourth beer.”
“Christ.”
“Look, Danny, I can’t leave here and go get him. But I have a bad feeling about this. I hate to ask, but…”
I hesitated only a moment.
“I’m on my way. Must be my night for angry drunks.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. I’ll go round up Harry.”
“Thanks. I owe you, Danny.”
***
The Spent Cartridge was a relic of an earlier time, and had the cramped, weary look to prove it. Huddled between two new high-rises, its darkwood facade, frosted window glass, and buzzing neon beer signs seemed a defiant rebuttal to the urban renovations surrounding it.
As I recalled from my visits the year before, the interior wasn’t much different. Though I wouldn’t get the chance to find out tonight.
I’d just pulled around the corner and begun peering past oncoming headlights for a parking space when I saw Harry Polk step unsteadily out of the bar. I slowed down, watching him make his way down the street to where his blue unmarked sedan was parked. From my vantage point, I could see him fumbling with his car keys. It took him a few tries to get the door open. Then he slumped behind the wheel.
I picked up speed, figuring I’d pull up next to his car and call to him. No way could I let him drive in that condition. But before I reached him, a truck came barreling around the corner, heading in my direction. Horn honking. Spinning the wheel, I pulled hard to the right, nearly hitting a parked BMW, as the truck roared past me.
Shit! By the time I’d gotten back in my lane, Harry had already pulled out of his spot and headed into traffic. Now all I could do was follow him.
Keeping a good four car lengths behind, I managed to stay on his tail as Harry wove through busy, night-veiled streets. He seemed to be heading for Shadyside.
Five minutes later, I was proven right. He’d just turned onto a gridlocked Walnut Street, its array of shops, art galleries and restaurants packed with Friday night revelers. Every parking space was filled, so Harry ended up circling back two more times.
Finally, giving up, he pulled out of traffic and swung into a narrow side street. Lined on either side by brownstone apartment buildings and townhouses, the residential area was lit by a row of sodium lamps whose intense glow threaded through the tangled tree canopy.
Polk found a parking spot under one of those high lamps. I slowed to a stop half a block down from him, waited till he’d moved away from his car, then parked mys
elf. Stepped out into the warm night air.
Giving Polk a good thirty yards distance, I followed carefully as he walked to the corner and turned back onto Walnut. I hurried then to catch up, afraid I might lose him in the crowd moving four-deep along the sidewalk.
I’d just turned the corner onto the busy street when I stopped suddenly. Stepped back. Then I poked my head out, peered down the block.
Harry Polk was leaning against an SUV, smoking a cigarette. Casually, as though he owned the vehicle. His eyes were riveted on the small, elegant café just opposite. Its outdoor patio boasted a dozen guest tables, all occupied by chatting couples. Drinking wine. Laughing. A few holding hands.
I followed Harry’s gaze. He was watching one couple, whose table was at such an angle that only their backs were visible to anyone on the sidewalk. The man had just stood up and tossed some bills on the table. Then he was helping the woman to her feet.
As they headed to the sidewalk, their bodies touched. Heads tilted together. An easy intimacy.
Until, suddenly, the woman looked up. Eyes darkening. She was in her late forties. Big hair. Red-painted lips.
“Harry!” Her voice as sharp-edged as a blade.
Her companion started, bland face going pale. He was well-dressed, a bit more polished than the woman. Monied.
Polk stepped awkwardly away from the SUV. Tossed his cigarette to the curb.
“You know who this guy is, Maddie?” Polk stared at the well-dressed man. “What he does for a living?”
Maddie came storming up to Harry, her forefinger raised as though a weapon. Her anger brought a deep scarlet blush to her cheeks. Made her whole body quiver.
“Who I see is none of your business, Harry! None, you crazy piece o’ shit! Or didn’t you get the divorce papers?”
“I got ’em, all right. I use ’em to wipe my ass!”
Before she could respond, Polk had pushed past the woman and confronted her companion. The stunned guy stood rooted to the pavement, mouth dropping open.
“And you, you sleazy prick! Stay the fuck away from my wife or I’ll rip your lungs out through your throat!”
Maddie whirled on her heel. “I’m not your wife, Harry! Not anymore! If you don’t get that through your thick skull, I’m gettin’ a restraining order. I swear to Christ, I’ll do it!”
But Polk seemed not to be listening. Instead, he took another menacing step toward his ex-wife’s date.
By now, onlookers were pointing and talking, or else giggling nervously. Others were slinking away, scared. And for good reason. So I hurried down the pavement and put my hand on Polk’s arm. Spun him around.
I don’t know which surprised him more—that somebody had grabbed him from behind in the middle of the sidewalk. Or that that somebody was me.
“Rinaldi?! What th—”
“Gotta save you from yourself, Harry. God knows, you’re too damned drunk to do it.”
He bristled, pulled himself out of my grasp. Back-stepped on the pavement. Almost losing his balance.
“Look at him! The guy’s totally shit-faced!”
These were the first words uttered by Maddie’s date. Apparently emboldened by my arrival, he’d sidled over to stand indignantly next to her.
I put my hand on Harry’s shoulder again. A firmer grip this time. “Harry, you’re a good cop. I’m not gonna let you throw your career away.”
Maddie put her hands on her hips.
“That’s right, Harry. You crazy bastard! What do ya think the department’s gonna do, once they find out you been stalkin’ your ex-wife? Huh? They’re gonna toss you out on your ass, that’s what they’re gonna do!”
“No shit?” A strange smile appeared on Polk’s face. Then he walked calmly over to Maddie and her companion. Deliberately crowded the man’s space.
“What did you tell Maddie, eh, pal? That you were some kind of investment banker? Some crap like that?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, even as he stiffly crossed his arms. Feigning indignation.
Maddie grabbed Polk’s elbow. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Harry? Martin is a banker—”
“Yeah? And I’m Elvis Presley. He’s a con, Maddie.”
The other man started. “Now, listen—”
“No, you listen, asshole. After you and Maddie left that bar in Market Square last night, I snuck in and lifted your drinking glass. Had a buddy of mine in the lab run your prints.”
Maddie stared at him. “Are you shittin’ me, Harry?”
“’Fraid not, Maddie. Lover boy here’s got a sheet as long as my dick. He’s wanted in a half-dozen states for fraud, check-kiting, you name it. His specialty is gettin’ his girlfriends to invest in real estate development.”
“What?”
Polk grabbed his ex by her shoulders. “Jesus, Maddie, his name ain’t even Martin. It’s Louis Blakely. And when he ain’t bangin’ you, he’s doin’ some widow named Esther Franklin, over in Highland Park. I oughtta know—I been followin’ the prick all over town. Him and you.”
Maddie squirmed in Polk’s grasp. “Let me go!”
But he merely swiveled his head to stare at the man.
“So how’s it comin’ with poor Esther, Blakely? She fork over any of her dead husband’s insurance money yet? Or are ya still workin’ her?”
I watched beads of sweat appear on Blakely’s forehead. I also saw his manicured hands clench at his sides.
But I knew it was just reflex. Blakely trying to get a grip on his nerves. He was no fighter.
Meanwhile, Maddie had finally wriggled free from Polk and stepped back on the pavement, eyes going back and forth from Blakely to her ex. Her whole body trembling.
“This ain’t true, is it, Marty?”
Blakely’s grin was sickly. “Look, honey, you can’t believe this lunatic. He’s just jealous. Can’t stand to see you happy. I—”
But Maddie merely stared at him. Unblinking. As the truth inevitably dawned.
Polk turned again to Blakely. “Now say good-bye to the nice lady, Louis. ’Cause I’m runnin’ you in.”
“But…but I haven’t done anything yet—”
Maddie gasped. “Yet? You lyin’ sack o’ shit!”
Suddenly, before either Polk or I could react, Blakely turned and bolted down the sidewalk. Shouting, shoving people aside as he disappeared in the thick of the crowd.
Laughing, Polk called after him.
“That’s right, Louis. Run!”
I stepped up beside him. “You’re letting him go?”
“I’m homicide, Doc. Not bunco. Penny ante bullshit. Besides, where can he go? He’s got warrants out on him all over the country. Sooner or later, some lucky uniform will collar his sorry ass at a bus station somewhere.”
Polk turned then, smiled at his ex-wife.
“Sorry about that, Maddie. Honest. I was just lookin’ out for you.”
“So who asked ya to?” She showed her teeth. “I don’t care why ya did it. Hell, maybe Blakely was right, and it was just because you can’t stand to see me happy.”
“That’s not true, honey. I—”
“We’re done, Harry. Finished. Now leave me alone to have a life. Or better yet, why don’tcha get one yourself?”
Harry froze then, and looked at her with a naked longing that took me by surprise. Her, too, I thought.
“You were my life, Maddie.” Voice barely audible.
She took a breath. Then, with a sad smile, she turned to me.
“If you’re his friend, mister, get him the hell away from me. And keep him away, okay?”
By now, whatever audience we’d had on the sidewalk had dispersed. Nothing more interesting was going to happen, like on a reality show. No more street drama.
Maddie gave Polk a long, last look. Then she pushed her shoulders back and walked off down the sidewalk.
Leaving me standing with a spent, shame-faced Harry Polk. Shoulders slumped. Eyes moist with banked tears.
“God, I hate her,” he said. �
�The stupid cunt.”
“I know.”
“And I love her.”
“I know that, too.”
He paused for a long moment. Wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve. Sighed heavily.
“You ain’t gonna tell Lowrey, are ya, Doc? I mean, about what I’ve been doin’?”
“I keep secrets for a living, Harry. Remember?”
***
By the time I got Polk buckled into the passenger seat of my car, he was lucid enough to give me directions to his place. Then we drove in silence to this squat, ugly apartment complex in Wilkinsburg. Classic housing for singles, the elderly, and the recently divorced.
At his insistence, I deposited him at the curb. He was unwilling to let me walk him to the front door, nor to accompany him up to his apartment.
“It’s bad enough I hadda get a ride home with you.”
He leaned into the car through the open passenger side window. Aimed a stubby forefinger in my direction.
“And don’t go gettin’ any stupid ideas about you an’ me. We ain’t never gonna be best buddies or nothin’ like that. Hell, I still think you got no business stickin’ your nose into police work.”
“Duly noted.”
“Yeah, whatever. Now I’m goin’ upstairs and get some shut-eye. First thing in the mornin’, I gotta go in and kiss Biegler’s ass. Plus the whole damn force is gonna be ramped up, with that bullshit debate and all.” He looked off at the black, star-swept sky. “Shit, I got the feelin’ tomorrow’s gonna be a killer of a day.”
Harry Polk had no idea how right he was.
Chapter Fifty-five
That day began eight hours later, at dawn on Saturday morning, with Sam Weiss having breakfast with me at a family-owned diner in Squirrel Hill.
Talking about the death of a man I’d never heard of.
Sam had awakened me from a deep sleep while it was still dark outside, urging me to turn on the TV news. And then to join him at his local coffee joint. Groggy and irritable, I grudgingly did both things he asked.
But not before grabbing a quick shave and shower, and then removing the bandage from the back of my head. I figured the bruise had healed enough. I was right. Driving down from Mt. Washington with the windows open, the predawn air felt good moving freely through my hair.
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