“How about the brain?”
Norcross frowned back at Frank. Then, without saying anything, he turned toward his inner office and the fresh stack of files waiting for him.
2
While Judge Norcross was putting another life sentence behind him, Holyoke patrolman Alex Torricelli was stuck in traffic, late for roll call, and having the worst day of his life. He strained his thick neck to peer over the backed-up cars. What was the problem? Construction again? Some pileup?
Alex had been a police officer for eight years, happily married for the last five. He was crazy about his wife, Janice, but for reasons that were beyond him now he had celebrated the Columbus Day holiday yesterday with a foolhardy tumble at the Motel 6 in Deerfield, the first and only time he had swerved on his wife, and somehow—he couldn’t figure how—Janice immediately knew what was up. In thirty sick-making seconds during this morning’s breakfast, she’d managed to tip over the entire, well-rehearsed load of bullshit he tried to dump on her.
Groaning, he tried again to see what was causing the traffic. Forget this, Alex thought. Try a shortcut.
He lunged into the oncoming lane, made a flagrantly illegal U-turn, and gunned it. A half mile through the broken-down Flats and then a left—a roundabout route, but it might save him two days’ suspension without pay.
While he drove, scenes from the morning’s horror movie replayed in his mind: his wife’s furious face as she pegged a jar of grape jelly at him, the crash of the kitchen clock hitting the floor, the looping image of his pathetic self, dodging shoes and crockery, begging her not to go, admitting in two languages that he was the duke of dipshits. Everything he really cared about down the drain, all because of his own unbelievable stupidity.
Now they were going to tear off a piece of his ass for missing roll call, and he couldn’t even tell the shift commander the real reason he was late.
It didn’t help that his older brother, Tony, would bust a gut laughing about this. A law-school grad with all the family brains and good looks, Tony enjoyed boasting nonstop about the many women he’d shagged behind Cindy’s back and the stupendous ejaculations he enjoyed on his junkets to Vegas. He never got caught, the prick.
The traffic thinned out on the back streets, and as Alex pulled through an intersection, his eyes began automatically skimming boarded-up storefronts, checking out groups of guys in low-slung, oversize pants with pockets that were way too bulgy, their gang colors displayed in red-and-white chokers or yellow-and-black wristbands. Down the block, somebody was leaning over, talking to a couple of white guys in a silver Mercedes with New York tags. Might stop and say howdy if he weren’t so rushed.
“Whoa! Who’s this bozo?” Alex muttered.
Half a block up, a gray Nissan Stanza popped out the wrong way from a one-way side street. Skinny little Puerto Rican driving. A big bite out of the rear window and dirt all over the plate. Somebody in the back? Who might these pinwheels be?
The traffic on his police radio had been so blah Alex had barely listened, but now he sat up straight: reported drive-by, Walnut and High. Male and female subjects down. Suspected vehicle a dark blue or gray sedan, possibly a Jap import, driver and at least one passenger, one or both armed. Shooter may have an automatic weapon, possible AK-47 or M16.
Alex sped up and leaned forward to get a look through the Nissan’s chewed-out back window. Definitely something shadowy shifting around back there.
The Nissan slowed, and the backseat passenger jumped out near the Elm Street projects.
“What the fuck?”
Alex registered time and location. Passenger probably Hispanic. Male. Twenties. Medium height or better. Well built, broad shoulders. Black jeans and black or navy hooded sweatshirt. Hood up.
A crumpled brown Vanagon cut in, blocking Alex’s view of the Nissan. The Hispanic guy was double-timing down the alley hugging his arms against his chest like he was carrying something under the sweatshirt. No point trying to chase him. The Nissan was taking off.
“Okay, Paco,” Alex said. “Let’s see where the party is.”
He punched the accelerator, squirted around the Vanagon, and nosed in behind the Nissan.
“Let’s get up close and personal.” He pressed in behind to a quarter car length. The driver sped up. Alex sped up. The driver glanced into the rearview and turned a corner with a squeal. Alex followed, hit the speed dial on his cell for the station, quickly described the situation. As soon as he mentioned the blown-out rear window, the dispatcher cut in and told him to stay with the car, continue to advise location. Back-up on its way. Almost immediately, in the distance, a siren began to moan, then another farther off. Alex reached into the back, retrieved his .357, and placed it on the passenger seat.
“Here’s where I get a bullet through my little tiny brain,” he whispered. Would Janice miss him? She could pay off the mortgage with the insurance, maybe hook up with a smarter guy.
Three blocks down, the Nissan jumped the curb, knocked over a garbage can, and skidded sideways to a stop in front of a group of sagging three- and four-story apartment houses. The driver leaped out, slipped on a board, and fell—crying out in pain—then took off in a hopping limp toward a fence that barred the gap between two moth-eaten three-deckers. To the north, the chorus of sirens was getting angrier.
Alex got out of his car, shouting, “Police! Stop!”
The kid glanced over his shoulder, black eyebrows over dark, angry eyes, then turned and kept hobbling away, kicking out with his right foot.
“Hey, shit-for-brains! Police! Stop!”
Alex started running, holding his weapon with both hands, barrel pointed up. After twenty yards, Janice’s cannolis were catching up with him, and he was puffing hard. His mind scratched away at the details: Hispanic male, probably a juvie; five six, maybe five five; 130 pounds; no beard or mustache; no visible scars or tattoos; no gang insignia.
Now the kid was trying to vault over the chain-link fence. Didn’t make it. Small, but not real graceful. Too freaked out, thank God, to notice a gap in the fence ten feet to his left. Out of his usual turf.
Behind Alex, cruisers were skidding in, sirens groaning down, doors slamming, red flashes reflecting off bits of broken window. Heavy footsteps and shouts. Here comes the cavalry. Kid slipped, staggered back up, and glanced over his shoulder again. Just out of junior high and scared shitless.
Son of a bitch, Alex thought as he closed in, I might just catch this little fucker.
“Okay, pal. It’s over.” Then, alarmed and much louder: “Hold it, right there!”
Twelve feet away, close enough for Alex to notice a few gauzy hairs on the kid’s upper lip, the boy reached down and picked up a piece of pipe. He swung his arm back uncertainly.
Behind him, Alex heard an urgent voice shout “Gun!”
Alex twisted around. There had to be at least four cruisers, all lit up, and half a dozen cops legging it toward him.
“No, it’s just a pipe—just a kid!”
There was a sound like a snapping board, and he felt a sharp sting as a wild shot nipped off a piece of his left ear.
Alex slapped his hand over the wound, then turned back toward his quarry—half expecting to see him on the ground, shot—just in time to have the flying pipe hit him square in the mouth. Alex felt his front teeth snap, tasted the rusty metal.
His bloody hand fumbled onto a pile of construction blocks for support; he leaned over to shake his head clear and spat. The kid had a hold of the top of the fence and was finally working a leg over, heading for greener pastures but still, maybe, within reach.
A black officer ran up. “Al, you okay? You’re a mess.”
“Hold this.” Alex handed the officer his gun.
Unencumbered, Alex dashed through the gap in the fence, intercepted the boy just as he was dropping to the ground on the other side, grabbed him around the waist,
and slung him face-first into a brick wall. Then he flipped the kid around, kneed him in the groin, and punched him high in the gut to take the wind out of him. Grunting, Alex followed with a hard left to the side of the boy’s face, then held him up by the collar and reached down for a piece of brick. At this point, a baldheaded Holyoke sergeant grabbed his wrist.
“Now, Allie,” he drawled, “remember what you learned at the academy.” Sergeant DiMasi tossed the brick over the fence, stepped between Alex and the slumping kid. Two officers ran over and yanked the suspect up, not too gently, jerking his arms around for the cuffs.
“First, read the arrestee his rights.” DiMasi looked over at where the kid was being dragged toward the gap in the fence. “Then, and only then, proceed to pound the living crap out of him.”
The sergeant pointed at the boy’s foot, where a scrap of board was dragging along behind him. “Anyway, looks like our munchkin stepped on a nail.” He walked off, adjusting his gun belt and tucking his shirt in, then looked back over his shoulder. “Get yourself looked at.”
The black officer trotted up, giving Alex his gun and a sick look. Alex recognized him now, Carl somebody, but the world was turning very strange, waltzing around at the edges. It was dawning on Alex that he hurt in several places, that he was having trouble catching his breath, and that soon he was going to need to sit down.
“Man, Allie,” Carl was saying. “You need a dentist or something. You look like Dracula’s fat-assed little brother.”
Alex bent over with his hands on his knees. Drops of blood and sweat were making stains in the dust. The dots of blood were purple; the sweat spots were chocolate brown. Was he going to throw up?
“When you call my wife, do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“Tell her I might not live.”
3
On the evening of what came to be known locally as “the Walnut Street Massacre,” Judge Norcross broke off his late commute home to pull into the parking lot of a rural ATM. His gloom at the life sentence he’d imposed that morning still had not lifted and, adding to his distraction, he could almost hear his poor dog pacing on the kitchen tiles, urging him to hurry home and let her out.
Inside the glass kiosk, Norcross set his car keys on the metal shelf and let his eyes drift up into the deepening late-afternoon sky. Would the Bureau of Prisons find a spot for the defendant in Massachusetts or Connecticut, somewhere his family might at least visit once in a while? Texas or California was more likely.
As the machine snapped up his card and began displaying instructions, Norcross heard his cell phone ringing back in his car. He had a monster securities case set for hearing the next morning, but there was a chance the thing might settle, and his courtroom deputy, Ruby Johnson, had promised to get in touch if there was any news. The call might save him from a late night poring over SEC filings.
Norcross decided to abort the ATM transaction and take the call, but even though he pushed all the correct buttons to get his card back, the machine took its time. The phone was already on its fourth ring.
In mounting frustration, Norcross made his fatal mistake. He abruptly shoved the kiosk’s door open, scuffed a clump of dirt and gravel underneath the frame to hold it in place, and took three quick steps to retrieve his cell. Just as he plucked it out of the front console—and caught the click of Ruby hanging up—a heavy log truck rumbled by. The vehicle’s vibrations loosened the kiosk’s door, and it closed just as Norcross, lunging back, grabbed for the handle. He was locked out.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” He tapped his forehead against the kiosk’s cool metal frame. When had he become such a total idiot? There was no rush to get the call. Ruby would certainly call him at home later, or he could have phoned her back. Muttering insults at himself, he tried several other credit cards in the door’s security slot but got no buzz. Four feet away on the other side of the glass, his card was now sticking out of the ATM like a mocking tongue. The machine beeped derisively. His car keys still lay on the metal shelf.
“Son of a buck!” He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then kicked the doorframe several times. It didn’t budge. A couple of cars flew past, but no one stopped to assist or upbraid him.
An old sugar maple was standing at the margin of the crumbling asphalt, waving its yellow and orange leaves against the sky, and the judge lifted his face up to it for consolation. There was a delicious smell of smoke from someone burning leaves nearby, almost certainly in violation of some local regulation. He sighed and was on the point of calling one of his deputy marshals to come fetch him when a lipstick-red Prius pulled up.
The driver was a woman, quite a good-looking woman. Norcross glanced, trying not to be too obvious, at her slim thighs and nicely rounded hips as she unfolded herself from the car. She had on dark glasses, which gave her the blank look of a Secret Service agent or a hit man. She stopped a few steps in front of him and made a sweeping gesture with her left arm; he was blocking the door. She had her ATM card in her right hand.
“Sorry,” Norcross said, stepping to one side. “You won’t believe what’s happened.”
The lady ducked her chin and peeped at him over her glasses. “I bet not.”
She was wearing a brown leather jacket and a moss green sweater that neither concealed nor overemphasized her pleasing architecture. The sort of woman who knew she was attractive, knew he was noticing, and knew it was no big deal. Probably not a CIA agent after all. A doctor or therapist of some sort, he guessed, or a teacher.
“It’s just”—Norcross pointed at the beeping machine—“I’ve locked my card inside.” He paused and looked at her. “Not my brightest moment.”
She took off the shades, which made her face less daunting. Her eyes were intelligent and, perhaps, amused. Her light brown hair was pushed back over her ears. Slipping the glasses into her pocket, she said, “So you want me to rescue you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’d really appreciate it.”
She tilted her head to one side. “I need to think about this.” She pointed at him. “Stay.” She inserted her card and opened the door.
This was stupid but interesting. Should he shove his way in? He had a good six or eight inches on her. But the doorway was small—he would have had to wrestle her aside—and the judge’s good manners made any pushy move of this sort out of the question. He’d wait and see what happened. She went in; the door closed.
Inside, the lady noticed his car keys on the metal shelf and held them up.
“Right. Those are also mine.” Norcross sniffed and pulled on the end of his nose. “Been a tough day.”
The lady extracted his ATM card from the machine and held it up with another inquiring look.
“Exactly,” Norcross said.
While she worked her way through the usual procedure to get her cash, the lady kept jingling his keys in her hand and looking over at him through the glass as though he were someone she might know. This made Norcross uncomfortable. His picture was in the paper a lot. Had he sentenced a friend of hers? Some relative? Her?
She put the cash in her purse and then stood, continuing to look at him.
“Some guy in a suit hanging around the cash machine,” she said. “I almost didn’t stop.”
“Sorry.”
At this point, she startled him by sucking on her lower lip and turning up the corners of her mouth in a way that made her face look charmingly goofy. The expression passed quickly.
“Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal.” She held up his keys in one hand and his card in the other. “I ask you three questions. If you answer them correctly, I give you your stuff back.”
“Excuse me?”
He’d heard what she said, but the situation was becoming bewilderingly weird. It had been years since a pretty female had joshed him like this. An odd, fizzing sensation rose in his chest.
She dropped her hands and spoke a little louder. “You answer three questions, and you get your stuff. Easy as pie.”
“Is this really necessary?” Norcross asked, trying to sound breezy. “It’s just that …” He hesitated. “My dog’s waiting.” He tipped his head to the west. “And it’s getting late.”
The sky had turned peach and turquoise in the late afternoon, and the bluish light inside the ATM was giving the lady a strange glow. A surge of wind had the sugar maple fluttering.
“This won’t take long.” She drew in a breath to put her first question, but the judge, on an impulse that startled him, held up his hands.
“Wait. I get to ask you a question for each one you ask me.”
“You’re not in a very good position to bargain.”
Norcross folded his arms. “You’re going to have to open that door some time, kiddo.”
She did the thing with her lower lip again. It was so nutty the judge had to work hard to keep himself from smiling.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But I get to go first.”
“Fine, fire away. First one who misses picks up the tab.”
She put a finger on her cheek. Clear nail polish, with fingernails well shaped and not too long.
“What is your name?”
Norcross gave her his name and watched as she confirmed it on the card.
“Okay,” he said. “My turn.”
“Nope. We agreed I get to ask my questions first.”
“You mean you get to ask all your questions before I get to ask any of mine? How fair is that?”
“My answers are ‘Yes’ and ‘Quite.’ That’s two for you. Back to me.”
“What?”
“Rhetorical questions don’t count. As I say, my turn. What is your mission?”
Norcross broke off his indignation and blew out a relieved breath. His older brother, Raymond, had force-fed him British comedies all during their boyhood, and he could almost recite the end of Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
The Hanging Judge Page 2