“Coroners and police don’t always exchange information,” I say.
“I know. I’ll call there myself as soon as I get off the phone with you. Jack, don’t change the subject. Come to New York.”
“Alright,” I say. “I can be there tonight.”
“When?”
“Late. I’ll call your cell.”
“Why all the mystery? What the hell is going on?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Look, Jack, don’t fuck with me, okay? I’m your lawyer and I’m here to help you and I will help you any way I can but you’ve got to be straight with me.”
“I’ll call you when I get to New York and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” I look at my watch. “I’ll be there by nine o’clock tonight.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It is 9:17 when I cross the George Washington Bridge. I call Nicki’s cell and she answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“Where is here?”
“Heading toward Midtown.”
“It’s too late to meet at the office. Why don’t you come to the Mirabelle Hotel, it’s on 56th. They have a restaurant that’s open late and you can stay there tonight. I’ve already booked a room for you, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine.”
“I spoke with Dr. Abrams. He said he can see you tomorrow morning, first thing. His office is three blocks from the hotel. Sound okay?”
“Okay. What about the coroner?”
“I talked to a friend there. She’s checking as we speak. I’ll be at the Mirabelle in fifteen minutes. In the restaurant.”
“I’m not exactly dressed for anything upscale,” I say, thinking of my filthy clothes. “I mean, I look like hell.”
“That’s okay, it’s dark.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Nicki says as she sees me approach her table in the restaurant off the lobby of the Mirabelle Hotel. She stares at my filthy clothes. Then she sees the bandages on my brow and her concern turns to alarm. “What the hell happened?”
I sit across from her and before I can begin to tell her a waiter approaches. Nicki orders something small and healthy and then gets me to agree to a steak and potato and vegetables.
“You need to eat, you look like death.”
I smile and tell her she’s not far from the truth and then I tell her what happened in St. Stephen. Our food arrives just as I finish and she doesn’t even notice. She sits and stares at me, astonished. After the waiter leaves she leans forward.
“This person—whoever assaulted you—did you see him? Do you know him from anywhere?”
“I didn’t see him,” I realize how hungry I am and I start eating. “He must know something…how else could he have been there? And I had this dream…”
“What dream?”
“From when I was drinking. I dreamed about a man…” I trail off, the dream is gone from memory.
“What do you remember about him?”
I shake my head. “Nothing…I don’t know...”
She watches me eat, her brows knitted as she works the problem in her mind.
“It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” I say.
“No, it doesn’t. But there has to be an answer.” Her eyes dart back and forth quickly as she works the problem. “Jack, these women—the pictures. Are you sure you never knew them? Never met them?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t know them. But the pictures… I knew the pictures. I know it sounds crazy…”
“Finish your dinner and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll call Dr. Abrams and we’ll meet with him first thing in the morning.”
I nod.
“We’ll figure this out, Jack. There has to be an explanation.”
“What if the explanation is that I’m crazy?”
“You’re not crazy.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“That cut over your eye didn’t come from your imagination,” she says. “There has to be some explanation.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she says. “There always is.”
She takes a piece of paper from her little black Kate Spade handbag. “By the way, you were right about checking with the coroner’s office. Gregory Dontis died in May ’01.” She looks at me. “Good call,” she says.
“How’d he die?”
“Shot with a .22 caliber automatic.”
“How come his name didn’t show up in the police reports?” I ask.
“He wasn’t identified until after the initial investigation. He was a John Doe until the suspects were charged,” she says. “My investigator only asked the police for the initial reports, so his name didn’t appear.”
“I think you need a new investigator,” I say.
Nicki takes a sip of her wine.
“I think you’re right,” she admits.
“Who killed him?”
She looks at her notes. “Buenavestario Funiccilatierro.”
“Say what?”
She slides the paper over to me.
“AKA Bennie Fun,” she says. “You were right about checking with the coroner, but it still doesn’t help us. Dontis is dead and his killer’s been at Sing Sing ever since. It’s a dead end.”
“Who’s this Salvatore Funiccilatierro?” I ask, reading the notes.
“Sallie Fun. Bennie’s brother,” Nicki says. “The brothers ran a small-time sports book and Dontis got behind on the vig, so they showed up at his apartment one night to collect and it got out of hand and Dontis wound up shot in the back of the head and dumped in a ravine off the New Jersey turnpike. Both brothers were charged, and the DA’s office flipped Sallie.”
“Sallie still live in Jersey City?” I ask, looking at the address scrawled under Sallie’s name.
“Why?” she asks.
“If Dontis had the manuscript at his apartment, the brothers show up and kill him, then maybe grab some of his stuff on the way out. Bennie goes up for murder and Sallie’s left with Dontis’s stuff, including the manuscript. Maybe Sallie reads the manuscript and gets ideas.”
“That’s why I’m giving this information to the police, when the time is right,” Nicki says.
“You mean after your skilled junior associate shakes him down?”
“When the time is right,” she says.
“I know people who could check Sallie out,” I say.
“Who?”
“Cops, FBI, people I’ve used as technical advisors for the books.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to give any information to the police or FBI right now, no matter how tight you are with them,” she says.
“Maybe.” I look at Sallie’s address on the piece of paper. Nicki watches me, her eyes steady and serious. The corners of her mouth turn down.
“You’re not thinking of going there to talk to him yourself,” she says.
“Who, me?”
She puts her hand on mine and looks right through me, her eyes clear and hard. I can imagine her using those eyes to penetrate some poor soul in cross-examination.
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she says.
I look at her.
“I promise,” I say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two hours later I’m sitting in my truck, halfway down the block from Sallie Fun’s apartment building. My truck is equidistant between the two feeble streetlights on the block, where the shadows are deepest. My rearview mirror and both side mirrors are adjusted so I can watch the apartment and also see anyone coming up behind me without turning my head. I keep a steady scan going: apartment, left side mirror, rearview, right mirror… After sitting stakeout with NYPD Homicide countless times I’ve picked up the basics. All I need are some stale donuts and lukewarm coffee.
I glance around the street. It
’s not far from the tidy, leafy streets of the Heights, but the gentrification that began in the 1980’s has passed over this particular neighborhood. Graffiti and trash are everywhere, and there are no people out for a stroll on the dark sidewalks. The buildings that line the street are old and ragged. Next to my truck is a parking meter that has been smashed open. I look at my watch. 12:25.
I have no idea what Sallie Fun looks like, and I have even less of an idea what I’ll do if I see him. Maybe he’ll be carrying a shovel. Or a dog-eared copy of Killer. Or maybe I’m wasting my time. But at least I’m doing something.
I lean back against the headrest. If Sallie had the manuscript before Killer went to press, he could have killed Beverly Grace. Far-fetched, but conceivable. But it still wouldn’t explain who killed Sharon Belton. I run my hand through my hair, trying to think. Specks of dirt fall onto my shirt. Grave dandruff. I could be showered and shaved and tucked between the crisp sheets of my king-sized bed at the Mirabelle, eating a shrimp sandwich from room service and watching pay-per-view, but I’d still be thinking the same thoughts. Might as well be thinking them here. Nicki wouldn’t approve, but so far I haven’t done anything stupid.
I look at the apartment, at the left mirror, the rearview, the right mirror…
I liked it when Nicki put her hand on mine. I’m sure it was a purely professional gesture of concern, but it was nice to feel the tactile care of a woman. She wears no wedding ring. A boyfriend is likely, given how attractive she is, but from what I’ve seen she works long hours and she seems like she’d be choosy about the men in her life. There is a self-sufficiency about her. She has been friendly and frank with me but there is something guarded beneath it. There could be any number of reasons for that. I’m a client, of course, and possibly a serial killer. There’s that. But I have a feeling there’s something else. Maybe she picked up that I’m attracted to her but I’m not her type. Maybe she’s found the perfect guy and she can think of nothing but him night and day. Maybe she prefers women. Maybe she’s Amish. Probably she’s overwhelmed by my animal magnetism and grave-scent. I try to think about other things, but for the first time in a long time I seem to be preoccupied with a woman.
“Progress,” I say.
A male figure lopes down the street toward me, toward Sallie’s apartment. When he passes under a streetlight I get a good look: thirties, dark hair, small dark eyes, advanced male pattern baldness. He is wearing Air Jordans, Fila sweatpants, and a NY Giants jacket.
“Welcome to 1989,” I say.
He climbs the steps to Sallie’s building and enters. I wait until I see a light come on in a third story window. I count the number of windows from the corner of the building to the lighted window, then get out of the truck.
I cross the street to the building and step into the shadows of the doorway and scan down the list of tenants by the buzzers for the lobby door. S. Funaculaterri is misspelled and listed as residing in 3D. The lock on the lobby door is broken so I open the door and go inside.
The lobby is cramped, the walls painted and repainted so many times that the surface is rippled and buckled over the tectonic plates of old paint. The floor is filthy and there is a rusted bicycle frame leaning against one wall, minus both wheels. Next to the bike, a stained twin mattress sags against the wall. When I walk past the mattress I smell urine and something like soiled baby diapers. Somewhere upstairs a stereo is playing. I can’t hear the music, but the thump of the bass rattles the metal bike frame. I walk past the ancient elevator and take the stairs to the third floor.
The lights are out in the third floor hallway. I stop and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The door across from me has plastic characters nailed to the center panel, plated in peeling faux brass: 3A. I move down the hall until I reach 3D. I stop and look at the door. The trim around the jamb was painted without being taped and brush marks slop over the trim and onto the wall haphazardly.
Now what? I could turn around and go back to my hotel and my imaginary shrimp sandwich. And then what? Wait until morning for another interview with Detective Marsh sitting across from me with his manila folder and his small gray eyes? And Det. Larson smirking at me…
I knock. A few moments pass, then I hear someone moving inside the apartment.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice from inside, close to the door.
“Sam Spade,” I say.
“Who?”
“Philip Marlowe,” I say.
“Don’t know you. Get lost.”
“C’mon, Sallie, it’s me. Open up.”
The door opens a few inches. Sallie Fun glares at me from under his caveman brow. He has shed the Giants jacket, allowing full view of his puffy steroid muscles, which pack his white wife-beater like the cream filling in a Twinkie. He’s short, and wears a gold necklace with some kind of medallion on it. Another victim of The Sopranos.
“Fuck do you want?” he says. His voice is high and nasal. His right hand is holding the edge of the door and his left arm is down at his side, his hand hidden behind his back.
“Just want to talk,” I say.
“’Bout what?” he glares.
“Gregory Dontis.”
Sallie takes a moment to absorb this. It seems like it might take Sallie a long time to absorb anything.
“You a cop?”
“No, I’m an international best-selling author,” I say.
“Fuck off,” Sallie says, and starts to close the door. I stick my foot in the way to stop it.
“Get your foot outta my door, fucko,” Sallie says, giving me his tough-guy glare.
“Fucko?” I say.
Sallie pulls a small pistol from behind his back and points it at my face.
“You don’t wanna fuck with me, jerkoff. Get the fuck outta here.”
“You say ‘fuck’ a lot,” I say. “Can I assume you’re not much of a reader?”
Sallie pulls the slide back on the gun, jacking a round into the chamber. He narrows his small eyes at me, as if his gun has spoken for him. At least the gun didn’t say “fuck.”
“Don’t think I won’t do it,” he says.
His finger curls tighter around the trigger. I believe him. It was probably Sallie who shot Gregory Dontis, then ratted his brother out for it. He seems like that kind of guy—tweaked on steroids and God knows what else. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Turn your ass around and get the fuck outta here,” he says.
“I can’t do that,” I say, thinking of Nicki telling me Gregory Dontis was shot in the back of the head.
“You will do that,” Sallie says.
“No, I won’t,” I say, now remembering an NYPD weapons trainer yelling at a green Academy cadet over the gunfire at an outdoor range: “Arrest procedure 101: never, EVER turn your back on an armed suspect.”
“Yes you will,” Sallie says. “Turn around and walk away, shit-stain.”
“I can’t do that, Sallie” I say. “I promised someone I wouldn’t do anything stupid. And it would be stupid to turn my back on a twitchy little wannabe gangster with a pimp gun aimed at me and a round in the chamber. Toss the gun under the bed over there and we’ll talk.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, man,” Sallie says, his hand starting to tremble, his high voice rising higher.
“Put the gun down and I’ll go.”
“Fuck you,” he says.
We stand there for a moment. It would be a Mexican standoff except I don’t have a gun. I hear a small child fussing from one of the apartments down the hall. I look at the barrel of the gun in my face. A Ruger .22 automatic.
“Look, I just want to talk to you about that,” I point to a corner of the room behind Sallie.
He turns to look and I kick the door hard, spinning him halfway around. I grab his gun-hand and ram my head into his chest and slam him down to the floor of the apartment. I pin his gun-hand to the floor with my right hand, and put my left knee on his right elbow and grind my right knee into his stomach with all m
y weight.
“Ooph,” he says.
I reach down with my left hand and grab his testicles through his Fila sweats and squeeze as hard as I can.
“Ahh!” Sallie says.
“Drop the gun and I’ll give you your balls back, Sallie,” I say.
“Fuck you, motherfucker—” he grunts.
He squirms and I yank his testicles down as hard as I can and he screams.
“You ought to lay off the ‘roids, Sallie. Your nuts are like raisins,” I say.
Sallie struggles to raise his gun but can’t. The gun goes off, popping a small hole in the tweeter of a stereo speaker across the single-room apartment. Sallie fires again, the slug hitting the ceiling.
I pull even harder on Sallie’s testicles. Sallie makes a sound like a cat being tortured. His breath smells worse than the mattress in the lobby. I glance around the room. A sagging bookcase against the wall holds a cheap stereo, some CD’s, a copy of Club magazine, a picture book about bodybuilding, and a pair of hand exercisers intended to make your forearms look like Popeye’s. This is definitely not a guy who would read a manuscript and meticulously craft a copycat murder. I look down at him and see fear in his eyes. I start to feel sorry for him, then I stop the feeling right away.
“Tell you what, Sallie. Reach down with your little finger and release the magazine and let it fall on the floor. Then I’ll let go of your raisins.”
He glares up at me ferociously. I twist his testicles and he howls.
“You can release the clip on that Ruger with one hand. I’ve done it and so can you. If your hands are strong enough, that is,” I say.
Sallie grits his teeth. Tears run back from his eyes and into his ears. He slides his little finger down and presses the release button on the gun butt and the magazine falls out onto the floor.
“Alright,” I say, then I let go of his testicles and hit him in the face with a left cross as hard as I can. He makes an abrupt rasping sound and a cut opens on his cheekbone and blood starts running down his face, following the trail of tears into his ear.
I pick up the gun and the magazine and get up.
“Ever read a manuscript called Killer?” I ask.
Killer: A Novel Page 9