Two years later, his father was dead, dragged down by fever and starvation, and Freddy was the barber for the SS officers. They would come in the morning, well fed, happy, smelling of cologne and tobacco smoke, for a shave and a trim. He was their mascot to be teased and offered treats of chocolate and tinned foods, and occasionally to be cuffed on the head or kicked if an officer was dissatisfied with his haircut. He joked and laughed with them and told them what they wanted to hear. Sometimes women came, the ones who wore their hair shorter than the fashion of the time. There was one in particular that he remembered, a small woman, quick and bright like a bird, but with cold blue eyes, who would come once a month. She came with her husband, who was called Herr Doktor by the SS officers, and who was very proud of his thick chestnut hair, very particular about how it was to be trimmed. She would not talk to Freddy but would watch him in the mirror as he worked on her, and when he was finished, she would examine the result carefully, nod to him, and give him a hard candy that tasted of fruit he did not recognize. The SS officers called her ‘Eis’ behind her back, and while they were polite to her, there was something about her that unsettled even them. She and her husband worked in the medical compound, a place from which no one returned healthy. He wondered what she did that could make SS men uncomfortable.
Sometimes when he shaved one of them he thought about drawing the blade hard across the exposed neck where the large vein pulsed under the skin. In his mind’s eye he saw the spurt of blood and the look of fear as the man realized he was dying. But he had never had the courage to do it, and so he had survived.
The hard edge of the steel highway support dug into Freddy’s back and reminded him that he was here, now, in New York City, and that the memories were just smoke in his head. He had learned that the cop’s name was Cassidy and that he was trying to find Leon’s killer, and he had a vague thought that if he followed Cassidy he might discover who the killer was. But then what? And what about the woman? She was a Jew, a newspaper reporter. He did not know much about her or what a newspaper reporter did. Was she trying to find Leon’s killer? He would have to think about her and what she was doing. He would have to study on it.
He went up the street staying in the deep shadows along the buildings. He did not think they would be watching from the apartment, but the shadows were where he was comfortable.
TWENTY-FOUR
Cassidy nursed a beer at a table in the White Horse and thought about Paul Williger. Chemistry tied Williger to the dead Chris Collins and to Brian’s kidnapping, but there had to be more to it than that. Still, chemistry was the thread to pull on. He was wondering if it was strong enough to unravel the whole business when Spencer Shaw sat down in the chair across the table. He carried two brandy snifters and pushed one across to Cassidy. ‘Hennessy, VSOP. Good. Not the best, but very good.’
Cassidy lit a cigarette and waited for Shaw to get to the point.
‘We had a call from Penny Williger,’ Shaw said. ‘She said you went back to the house and talked to her mother after we’d left. Apparently her mother told you some tales.’
‘She said that you and Ambrose and Williger were working for the CIA.’
Shaw shrugged. ‘Big deal.’ Then he said, ‘Russell Crofoot.’ He said it mildly but he watched Cassidy carefully for a reaction. ‘You remember him, don’t you?’
Russell Crofoot, Cassidy thought. So that was his first name. He had never known it. Sometimes he forgot that Crofoot ever lived. ‘Sure. He was one of your agents in New York a couple of years ago. Rudi Apfel, the Russian KGB agent, the blackmail ring and all that. I never knew his first name.’
‘And the woman, Dylan McCue, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was.’ Cassidy worked to keep his reaction to her name neutral.
‘Crofoot was killed a couple of blocks from your apartment.’
‘I remember. Him and another guy. Apparently they shot each other. The other guy had ID that said his name was Fraker, but the ID turned out to be a fake. We never did find out who he was. One of yours, probably. That’s what everyone thought.’
‘Why would two of our agents shoot each other?’
‘Maybe they got their secrets mixed up.’
‘The New York Police Department never solved the crime.’
‘Sure, we did. Crofoot and Fraker shot each other. We never found a motive. Your office wouldn’t cooperate.’
‘We never believed they shot each other.’ Shaw’s tension showed in the bunched muscles of his jaw and a tightening at the corners of his mouth. ‘Fraker had a broken neck. A bullet from Crofoot’s gun hit him after he was dead. The agency thinks someone killed Fraker and then shot Crofoot with Fraker’s gun. We wondered what they were doing on that block, and the only thing we could come up with that would draw them there was you. You lived nearby.’
‘That’s true. Crofoot knew that. Maybe he was coming to see me. We were both working the same side of the street back then. Maybe Fraker didn’t want him to talk to me.’ A small lie with an element of truth. They had been both after a blackmail ring tied to a Russian spying operation, but Crofoot wanted the blackmail material for his own benefit and the benefit of his masters.
‘Did you see Crofoot that night?’
‘No.’ A bigger lie. ‘According to the police report on the time of the shootings I was having dinner ten blocks away.’
‘We both know how accurate those reports are.’
‘You’re implying I killed them. I didn’t have a beef with either one. I never saw Fraker before I saw him in the morgue. Crofoot and I were fine. Why would I do it?’
‘We don’t have an answer to that yet.’ Shaw took his empty glass and Cassidy’s back to the bar for refills, and left Cassidy to think about Crofoot and Fraker and what had happened on that dark street two years ago.
At that time, he had been tormented by a recurring dream. In the dream he walked on a dark sidewalk at night and as he approached a darker place on the street, a dead man had warned him to turn back from a danger that waited. That night, as he walked home, he found himself back in the dream, dreaming and yet awake as he walked. A patch of darkness in front of him was darker than the night, and as he passed it, the dead man’s warning from the dream turned him in time to see Fraker step from a dark doorway with a gun raised. They had fought, and he had killed him, broken his neck, and then Crofoot had lunged out of a car across the street firing a gun as he ran toward him, and Cassidy had killed him with Fraker’s gun.
Shaw came back with the drinks and sat down. ‘The thing is, I don’t need proof. This isn’t going to a court. I know you killed him.’ He took a sip of his cognac. ‘Russ Crofoot was my brother. Well, my half-brother. Mother was a serial marrier. My father came right after Russell’s. There were a couple more after that, but Russ was the one closest to me. He got me laid for the first time, taught me how to shoot, gave me my first cigarette, my first drink. I joined the OSS because of him. He was my brother. He was my best friend. I owe him a lot.’
‘Wow,’ Cassidy said. ‘What a heart-warming family story.’
‘I just wanted you to know why. It’s not random. There’s a reason behind it. You’re a smart guy. You get what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘The thing on the subway platform. That was good. I admit it, that scared me,’ Cassidy said. ‘The gunfire didn’t work as well. You could have killed me with the first shot, so by the third shot I knew it was a warning. I see why you did it. The pushing on the platform might have been just one of those unfortunate things that happens in a crowd. You had to let me know there was really a threat before you sent the flowers. I liked the lilies. That was a good touch.’
Shaw looked around to be sure there was no one within earshot. ‘I don’t think you’re as cool as you’re pretending to be. You know I’m out there. I’m going to kill you. You won’t know when until it’s happening. There’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘How will you get away with it? When I leave here, I’ll call
my partner, call my lieutenant, let them know.’
Shaw smiled. ‘Sure. I expect that. That isn’t going to make a difference.’
‘How about if I shoot you now?’ Cassidy put his hand under his jacket and touched his gun.
Shaw said, ‘Go ahead.’ He waited a moment, and then pushed back from the table. ‘I understand you were offered a chance to join the agency. You should’ve accepted. That would have fucked me up a bit.’
So Allen Dulles told him about the offer, because nobody else knew about it. ‘Fucked up how?’
‘Because the agency takes care of its own. But you aren’t one of us.’
‘Shaw, the day you come for me, I’ll kill you.’
‘Sure you will. Enjoy your drink. Sleep well. See you soon.’ He turned and went.
‘The son of a bitch came right out and said he was going to kill you?’ Orso asked.
‘Yes,’ Cassidy said. They were in squad room.
Orso had his feet up on his desk and was working his nails with an emery board. ‘Because he thinks you killed his brother?’ Orso watched Cassidy for a reaction. Cassidy knew he had never quite bought the story of how Fraker and Crofoot had killed each other not far from Cassidy’s apartment. He never pushed it. He was smart enough to know that a secret shared was no secret at all. Cassidy appreciated his reticence.
‘I can’t prove I didn’t.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Shaw showed me twice that he could do it. Once on the subway platform, and then with the rifle.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Cassidy said. ‘I’ve got some time. He’s not going to try soon. He likes the game. He wants me to think about it. Sleepless nights. Jumping at noises. Now that I know it’s, it’s going to be harder for him.’
‘Not much harder.’
‘Thanks for the boost.’
‘I’m just saying.’ Orso lit a cigarette. ‘What makes him think he can get away with it?’
‘He said something to me. He knew that Allen Dulles asked me if I wanted to join the agency. He said that if I had taken the job it would have given him a bigger problem, because the agency takes care of its own. If I’d joined, I would have been protected. But it also means that Shaw is in direct contact with Dulles. Dulles knows about the operation Shaw was running with Williger.’
‘So he’s got a lot of clout. Let’s clip him before he gets set. I’ve got a throw-down gun at the house. We can make it look like self-defense.’
‘Not yet. I want people to know what they’re doing. I want to blow this open.’
Orso threw up his hands at Cassidy’s lack of foresight. ‘Jesus … You think about this thing with Shaw. You’ll see I’m right.’
Cassidy called the Hotel Astor. Pickering, the night manager, was not on duty, but the day manager was happy to check the records. Mr Shaw had checked out a few days after Mr Williger’s unfortunate accident. He had left no forwarding address. Cassidy found Dr Ambrose’s SPring 7 phone number on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. Ambrose would know where Shaw was living, but he would not give it up to Cassidy. He’d have to find a way to Shaw without alerting him. He needed to track him, to know his habits. It was good to know the habits of whatever’s hunting you.
Orso came out of the locker room drying his hands on a paper towel. ‘I’m going to take off,’ Cassidy said.
Orso canned the balled-up towel in a wastebasket. ‘Hey, I met a guy with Amy last night. He’s a chemistry prof at NYU. A good guy, but full of himself. You know, a guy who’s always the smartest one in the room. I kind of pimped him. I told him about these blood samples we had, and how nobody could identify the crap that’s in them. Told him the FBI couldn’t come up with a thing. He bit, man. He’s sure he can identify them.’
‘Call Skinner. See if he’ll give us samples.’
Shaw was awake when the phone rang. He had been lying on his back in bed looking at the ceiling and thinking, the way one does when waiting for sleep that will not come. In the beginning he had been thinking about the recent past trying to decide where and when the train had begun to run off the tracks. Williger going out the window, maybe. He had been going over it step by step. What if he had done this? What if he had done that? But it all came back to Cassidy, like some weird force tied them together. Some sort of cosmic shit the way Cassidy cropped up in his life, first he killed Russ Crofoot, and then he just happens to be on duty when Williger goes out the window. And his girl just happens to stumble into the house on West Fourth. It was enough to make a man a believer.
From the past he had moved on to contemplate his future. He liked the work he did, and he pretty much knew that it did not have many applications outside an intelligence agency. They didn’t pay much, but on the other hand Government work had perks. If an operation went sideways, they would bail him out, change his identity, deny his existence, post him under cover to another country where the agency operated. They could make him disappear. As long as they didn’t make him disappear permanently. The thought did not make him smile.
The phone’s ring in the quiet of the apartment jerked him out of bed. He picked up before the third ring. ‘I’m here,’ he said. He did not have to ask who was calling. The son of a bitch always called at awkward hours. Maybe he didn’t sleep. Maybe he just hung from the rafters by his feet like a bat.
‘We’re closing the lab at Fort Dix. The operation will move south to an environment we can control better. We’re looking at Fort Detrick.’ Shaw heard the scrape of a match and the puffing necessary to get a pipe going. ‘I want you, the Brandts, and Ambrose out of New York as soon as possible. Clean up the loose ends.’
Shaw hesitated, but he had to ask. ‘Permanently?’
The phone at the other end cut off with a click.
TWENTY-FIVE
The weather could not make up its mind. It snowed during the night. The next day the temperatures rose to the high forties. By mid-morning it was gone except for the piles the plows left, which were turning to gray slush. Cassidy rang the doorbell marked Superintendent in green ink on a scrap of cardboard at the front of the building where Leon Dudek had lived. Mrs Tanenbaum opened the door. She held a dinner plate in one hand and went back to drying it with her apron. A half-smoked cigarette drooped from the corner of her mouth. Her stance in the middle of the doorway was no invitation to enter. She looked at him without curiosity and waited for Cassidy to state his business.
‘Have you seen Freddy since the funeral?’
No, she hadn’t seen Freddy since the funeral. Freddy was a wild animal. No one knew where he went or what he did. The cops should leave Freddy alone. Freddy had suffered enough. He wasn’t right in the head.
‘When was he last here?’
‘The day we buried Leon. I have not seen him since. This is not unusual. He comes, he goes.’
He thanked her and left.
Two Con Ed workers in soiled coveralls were eating hamburgers at a Formica-topped table in the diner on 3rd Street. Their tool belts and heavy canvas gloves rested on the extra chairs. An old man in a ragged black overcoat sat on a counter stool near the door and crumpled free saltines into his soup. Cassidy took a stool at the far end of the counter. The counterman came to take his order.
‘Coffee, black. Pie?’
‘Apple.’
‘Any good?’
‘My wife bake it this morning.’ A little bit of a challenge there.
‘I’ll take a piece.’
The coffee came in a thick white mug, and the generous piece of pie was accompanied by a pitcher of cream. The counterman waited while Cassidy tasted the pie.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ He poured some of the cream on what was left.
The counterman nodded. ‘Her strawberry’s even better, but she do that in the spring. She don’t believe that frozen crap tastes the same.’
‘I’ll stop back for a piece.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘I was in here a few weeks ago. I chase
d a kid through here, never caught him.’
‘Yeah. Freddy. I remember.’ He pulled at his thick, black mustache.
‘Have you seen him lately?’
‘He in trouble this time?’
‘No. I just want to ask him some questions.’
‘Yeah?’ A New Yorker’s skepticism about cops. He pulled at the mustache again. Maybe that’s what he did when he was trying to make up his mind.
‘Cross my heart.’ Cassidy did it with forefinger across his coat. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘In here a couple of days ago.’
‘Do you know where he’s staying? I asked at the place down the street, but they say they haven’t seen him.’
‘Nah. He don’t talk much. I don’t ask him. Live and let live, know what I mean?’
‘You said you thought he had a coop somewhere over near the bridge. Do you know where it is?’
‘Nah. Not really. I don’t know exactly. From what he sometimes say, it could be right at the bridge.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Not in a building?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I just got the feeling. Could be wrong.’
It was a ten-minute walk to the Williamsburg Bridge. Cassidy crossed East Houston Street with its big brick and granite buildings holding printing plants and light manufacturing and skirted the vast construction area where a slum of tenements had been razed in preparation for a development to be known as the Baruch Houses. The ramps to the bridge rose to his right and the southern edge of the Baruch Houses construction site was on his left. Steam shovels took big bites out of the ground while bulldozers clanked and roared as they shoved dirt and rubble into piles on the torn land.
Night Watch Page 24