“I prefer to stand, thank you very much.Well?”
“Certain aspects of this case don’t add up,” Dave said. “We have
established links between the first four Ladykiller victims and the crisis center. And yet no record exists of their ever being here. The files
show no one close to them in age, appearance, what have you. That’s
odd. I’d say someone yanked their files.”
“What are you driving at?” Nita asked.
“Do any clients have access to the area where the files are kept,
Nita?”
“Only crisis center professionals are allowed access to the files,”
Nita said.
“Yes, but are any clients allowed near the filing cabinets where
they are kept?”
“We have some clients who help out around the office. The less
seriously disturbed, of course.”
“Another curious thing is that the victims were all Reuben’s. At
least, that’s what Ace said.” Dave folded his arms. “Now, the victims
were said to be very enthusiastic about the person they saw here.
That’s what their loved ones and friends told us. Trouble is, Reuben
was not known around here as someone to inspire much fervor
among his clients. Quite the contrary.”
“How dare you,” Nita said angrily. “Reuben was dedicated. He
worked hard.You’re talking to the wrong people.”
“Um, I have to corroborate the detective’s assertion, Nita,” Dr.
Solomon said apologetically.
“At long last, detective,” Nita said, her voice cold, “please tell me
what you are getting at.”
“I want to interview your clients,” Dave said.
“What did you say?”
“You have some seriously disturbed people here,” Dave said. “You
admit that some could have gotten near the filing cabinets. Perhaps the
files contained clues to who the killer is. The files might explain the
relationship that Reuben had with these clients — which I frankly
don’t understand — and that might shed even more light on who our
perpetrator is.”
“Never,” Nita said.
“Nita, aren’t we being a little hasty?” Dr. Solomon said. “Never in a million years,” Nita said. “Those clients trust us.
We’re not going to set them up for another of the detective’s fishing
expeditions, endangering their therapy.”
Dave jumped to his feet. “Endangering their therapy? What about
the lives this weirdo has snuffed out? What about the innocent people
he is going to kill if we don’t stop him?”
“Never,” Nita told him. “Never, never, never.”
“The odds are that one of your loonies is the killer,” Dave thundered back at her.
Nita shouted loud enough to echo through the building. “The
odds are that you can’t do your job right and are recklessly trying to
find someone to pin the blame on to save your ass.”
Dave shook with rage.The cords stood out on his neck. “I can get
a court order,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You do that,” Nita shot back. “We’ll fight it in any courtroom
you want.”
“Oh, my,” Dr. Solomon said. “We can’t afford a legal battle, Nita.
Oh, my.”
“We don’t need to afford it,” Nita said. “I know a good lawyer
who will work for nothing to tie them up in knots for weeks, months,
years.Watch me do it.”
Dave marched out of the office.The social workers stared at him.
Megan was nowhere to be seen.
Nita had called his bluff. He didn’t have the time to wage a court
fight. And even if there was more time, Mancuso would never go for
it. He had to apply some other pressure to gain quick compliance. Another thought nagged him: At a time like this, was it wise to
romance Megan?
It didn’t matter. He needed to. That part of his life was separate
and precious.
At the pay phone outside the center, he stabbed out Jimmy Conlon’s number.
FOURTEEN
“Incredible,” Jimmy Conlon said as he read the newspaper story for the fifth time. “In-fucking-credible.” It was a front-page story by Laird Caruthers on the lack of progress in the Ladykiller investigation: most of it regurgitated clips from stories Jimmy had written. To freshen it up, there were only three new quotes, saying the obvious.
Then it got worse. Laird was lounging at his desk, which was two away from Jimmy’s, when Chip traipsed up.
“Great work on the Ladykiller piece,” Chip told him. “Keep that stuff coming.”
“The most original reporting I’ve read all year,” Jimmy called to them.They ignored him.
“Thanks, Chip,” Laird said with the practiced boyish grin that had ingratiated him to elders his entire life.
After Chip went away, Jimmy approached Laird. “Anything I can do for you on this story? Other than give you more of my clips to rewrite, that is.”
Laird’s grin took on the mean edge of a poker player about to lay out his winning hand. “Just go on being you, champ.”
“Uh-huh. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make Chip and those assholes love you.”
Laird smirked. “I don’t call them assholes, for one thing.”
“I hear they’re grooming you for the Washington bureau.” Jimmy’s arm swept toward Chip’s office. “How do you do it?” “Hard work, champ.”
“I can see that. Say, do you even know any cops?”
“Some reporters know cops a little too well.They actually think they are cops.That stops them from digging hard. Not mentioning any names, of course.”
Jimmy balled his fists against his elbows. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I grew up with guys who became cops. Where did you grow up?” He added sardonically, “Laird?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that I grew up.”
Verbally outgunned, Jimmy was grateful when his phone rang. Glowering at Laird, he moved back to his desk and unholstered the receiver.
“I got something for you,” Dave said. “Big.”
Jimmy felt the insistent heat at his temples. “What?” He grabbed for a pen and notepad.
“All the victims were definitely clients at the West Side Crisis Center. A source told us they were Reuben Silver’s. Problem is that we can’t find files on any of them.We suspect that the killer is one of the clients. Looks like whoever it was removed the files from the cabinet. We’re betting that the files contain clues to the killer’s identity. We want to start interrogating the clients.”
“But the caseworkers don’t want you to, right?”
“Ta-da. Remember how, after Reuben Silver died, they used this woman as a spokesperson? Nita Bergstrom?”
“Yeah. A real looker, in a sort of frosty way.” Jimmy scribbled madly.
“She really runs the place,” Dave said. Jimmy could hear the traffic behind him. Pay phone, as usual. “On paper the chief is this Dr. Solomon. He’s a real space cadet.”
“So I better talk to Bergstrom,” Jimmy said.
“Don’t say I sent you.”
“She can stonewall you in court, no matter what we print.”
“It’ll be tougher against public outrage that she’s sheltering the Ladykiller. This should greatly accelerate the process.” Dave added, “Run tomorrow morning?”
“No. I better be in early for this. I’ll be lucky to get to see this Bergstrom woman today. I remember what a bitch she was. She’ll try to put me off too, no doubt. I don’t want to tell Chip what I’m doing or he’ll gi
ve the story to his favorite. How about tonight at McSorley’s?”
“Nope. Gotta visit my mother. Then go home and spend some quality time with the cat. How about tomorrow night? Early, though. I got a date.”
“With the —”
“Yeah, with her. Now go win a Pulitzer.” Dave hung up.
Jimmy called the crisis center and asked for Nita, making sure to identify himself as a reporter. A gay-sounding fellow named Tim, who cupped his hand over the phone when soliciting Nita’s availability, came back to say she was in conference and could he take Jimmy’s number.
Jimmy gave it, knowing she wouldn’t vouchsafe the courtesy of a reply.With a lead as sensitive as this, you followed polite protocols at the outset.Then you barged in uninvited.
Laird, feet up on desk, was chortling over the phone to an old school chum and planning a weekend outing to the Cape.
Jimmy imagined him in a gun sight. “Champ,” he said.
Ace hunched over, palms outstretched, the classic hapless beggar. “Please, Finesse, I got to have it.”
Finesse, who leaned against a grafitti-blotched wall, served up a rich laugh. “Name me one time you did one thing for me.”
“I’m your friend. Please, Finesse. I got to get out of this town. I’m dead meat if I don’t.”
“You’re tellin’ me you’re dead meat,” Finesse said. “Jackie Why been searchin’ all over for you.You owe him a fortune, is how I hear it.”
Ace smacked his forehead. “Jackie Why. I forgot that shit.”
“You are crazy, boy.You forget about a debt you owe Jackie Why, you done forgot your brains.Who else is after your sorry ass? I know it ain’t the police.”
“That’s a long story,”Ace said. “I need money for a bus. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Afraid you end up like Billy Ray Battle?”
“What?”
Finesse cocked his head to the side. “You ain’t heard? You on the wicked weed again? Everybody on the Deuce knows about old Billy Ray.”
“What happened?”
“Cracker got hisself killed, is what happened. Somebody stuck a knife in his eye, dumped him over in Jersey.”
“A knife,” Ace said hollowly. “In Jersey.”
“Yes, indeed.There an echo around here?”
Ace spun away and limped along the Deuce, his head bent over, watching the cracks on the sidewalk flip past like a TV picture with the vertical hold gone wrong. God, it hurt to walk, but he had to keep moving. He had wanted to try Billy Ray for money.That was out.
In the gaudy dimness of the Foxy Lady,Tony Topnut was no more helpful than a dead Billy Ray. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Only a little money. I’ll repay it. Honest. I’m good for it. Honest.”
“Go piss up a rope, Ace,” Tony said. The exploding Hawaian volcanoes on his shirt resembled penises. Hula girls greeted the lava joyously. “When Jackie Why gets done with you, the only thing you’ll be good for is piloting a pine box.”
“I got to get out of town.”
“Tough shit,”Tony Topnut said.
Ace said nothing. A customer called out to Tony Topnut with a question about when the skin was coming on. After Tony moved down the bar to talk to him,Ace hit the open lever on the cash register.The till popped open. He grabbed a fistful of cash, reaching underneath the cash tray where the big bills were kept. As Tony Topnut yelled, Ace bolted out of the bar. A couple of stools went flying when he bumped into them. His leg didn’t even hurt as he ran for his life into the daylight of the Deuce.
Sitting on the sofa against a mound of pillows, Dave’s mother had on her usual sour expression.
Mrs. Corrigan sat beside her, pretending to read a thick paperback with a picture on the cover of a bosomy Southern belle in the arms of a Rhett Butler clone. A prime-time cop show flickered on the huge screen of the Sony that Dave had bought his mother once for her birthday — a gift she never had thanked him for.
“Jimmy Conlon’s mother came by to check on me today,” his mother said. “Said you were taken up with some girl.”
“I told you about her, Ma. Megan.”
“Catholic?”
“No, Ma.”
“But Irish?”
“Sort of, Ma.”
“You going to marry this girl?”
Dave considered. “Maybe. I am crazy about her.That’s for sure.”
“Not Catholic,” his mother said. “That woman of your father’s wasn’t Catholic, either. There’s one who deserves to burn in hell. Break up a man’s family.”
“Megan is a nice girl, Ma,” Dave said. “Very smart.”
His mother frowned deeper. “The day a Dillon man gets himself a good woman is the day I’ll never see.”
“Dad got you, Ma.”
Mrs. Corrigan did her best to stifle a titter.
“I’m glad I’m seeing you lately,” his mother said with a sniff. “For a change. I ought to go to the hospital more often.”
“Ma, I swear.When this case is over — and I feel it’s going to be real soon — I’ll be here more.”
“If I had a nickel for every time I heard your father say that, I’d be a rich woman.And you know who he spent all his money on, don’t you?”
***
Megan felt as if she were being ripped apart.All day long, she watched Nita move through the crisis center, directing people, motivating them, a dauntless helmsman. Megan didn’t dare speak to her for fear that Nita could tell about Dave.Then she thought about Dave and the way he looked at her. She clamped her knees together.
“Nita isn’t herself today,” Tim said.
“She isn’t?” Megan said. “I haven’t noticed.”
“That business about the detective.We can’t let them in here like
that.”
“Like what?”
Tim told her. “It was such a scene. I wouldn’t have missed it for
the world. But we can’t have them giving our clients the third degree.” “Oh.” After she had agreed to the date with Dave, Megan had
left the crisis center for a short walk to try to reconcile her growing
attraction to Dave with her fierce loyalty to Nita. It hadn’t worked. “I
guess I was out of the building.”
“I hate to say this,” Tim said, “but that detective is one gorgeous
hunk. He really starts my engine.” Tim giggled. “And I know he starts
yours.”
“Excuse me,” Megan said. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” En
route, she encountered Nita at a clerk’s desk, listening to WCBS
Newsradio.
“How are you?” Nita asked brusquely.
“Terrific.” Megan mustered a smile.
“You seem a little frazzled.”
“Well, it’s been a tough day.”
“Tell me about it,” Nita said. “You heard about the encounter we
had with Sherlock Holmes?”
Megan nodded, perhaps too vigorously.
“No chance he’s going to disrupt our therapy,” Nita said. “And to
top it off, I just got off the phone with this obnoxious reporter, who
wants an interview.Who do those people think they are, anyway?” “Are you going to talk to him?” Megan asked.
“Certainly not. I have more important things to do than to cater to his prurient interests. The gall of him. He says he’s heard that the
murderer is one of our clients.”
“We don’t want that in the paper,” Megan said. “What does Dr.
Solomon say?”
“I’m not going to bother Dr. Solomon with this. He has enough
on his mind.”
“What about the reporter, Nita?”
“Ignore him. He’ll get sick of this and go off to do an article
about flying saucers or whatever people want to read about these
days. I hate reporters.There ought to be laws to control them. Other
socie
ties are better at that than ours.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Megan said. “Why don’t I cook dinner for you
tonight?”
“That would be lovely,” Nita said. “However, I have something to
do right after work.”
“That’s okay. I can wait. It would be fun.”
“As long as you’re willing.” Nita favored her with a faint smile and
headed toward her next group session.
Megan made straight for the ladies’ room. She locked herself in a
stall and leaned against the wall, hugging herself. Maybe seeing Nita
and then Dave would let her sort out the jumble in her mind.
Sweeney showed up, and Nita went to work on him quickly. “Officer Sweeney, I need your help on a confidential matter.”
Sweeney hauled himself to his feet and adopted an eager expression.“How can I help?”
“Detective Dillon has been to see me professionally about his problems.With the prostitute and the pimp he killed.”
“Wow.” Sweeney’s eyes widened and he ran his big hand over his face, as if to wash it.
“But he’s a little on edge and won’t tell me about his difficulties right now on the police force. I want to help him, but it’s difficult. I felt that, as a fellow officer —”
Looking delighted to be told some dirt about a detective, Sweeney said, “Is it okay for you to talk about him to me?”
“Perfectly acceptable. I’m not going into the details of his therapy, of course. Sometimes, however, a trained therapist needs to reach out to others concerning treatment.”
“Well, it’s no secret that the Ladykiller task force has until Friday to find the perp. If not, Chief Mancuso folds it.”
“Ah, that’s the pressure he’s been under.”
“Yeah. And if the task force goes, Mancuso will nail Dillon. He may bounce him off the force.”
“Thank you, Officer Sweeney.”
Nita donned her sunglasses and head kerchief, and slipped down to the Deuce. Even through the tinted lenses, she could make out every face she passed in the 42nd Street glare. She had to be thorough — as thorough as she had been disposing of Billy Ray’s body.
Passing the Foxy Lady, she saw the bloated slug of a man who she had seen inside the bar on Sunday. He was braying come-ons to male pedestrians.
“Our girls got the biggest hooters this side of the New York Philharmonic,” he cried. “Check it out.” He was wearing a disgusting Hawaiian shirt.
Ladykiller Page 20