“ ‘Give me the money, you crazy bitches.’ It’s my motto.”
CHAPTER 58
O’HARA OPENS HER computer on the front seat between her and Krekorian, finds the video from Wawrinka, and hits play. Once again the white Volvo drives up to the ER of Mother of Mercy Hospital. “The little guy behind the wheel is Popsicle,” says O’Hara. “The huge motherfucker asleep in the passenger seat is Fudgesicle.” They watch the smaller man hop from the front and hurry to the rear. Because she’s waiting for it and not under the influence of cold remedies, she can see the instant when the giant wakes and registers where he is, and the violence with which he turns on his partner, defenseless with the boy in his arms, is more disturbing the second time around. At the same time, she is more affected by the smaller man’s resolve, the way Popsicle clings to the boy no matter what, and it occurs to O’Hara that both of the men who stood up to Fudgesicle were barely over a hundred pounds.
“What do you think Fudgesicle is picking up?” asks O’Hara. “Popsicle’s wallet?”
“No,” says K, “his phone.” The two watch the video a second time, and O’Hara closes her computer. She and Krekorian are parked just north of St. Mark’s on Third Avenue. To afford a direct view of the spot where Hadass dropped off Fudgesicle the night before, they are facing south. Although Hadass declined the perp’s offer to drive a second night, O’Hara and K have been staked out there since midnight, in the hope that another cabby will take him on his rounds, then deliver him to the same spot.
“I remember when this was a freak parade,” says Krekorian about the pedestrian traffic on St. Mark’s. “Now it’s college kids in flip-flops.”
“And have you seen the fucking Pinkberry next to Grassroots?” asks O’Hara. “Classic dive bars should get landmark status preventing anyone from selling frozen yogurt within fifty feet of them on either side.”
Despite the knee-jerk kvetching, O’Hara still appreciates the late-night hubbub of the downtown streets, still gets a kick out of the club kid working out his identity crisis in hot pants and platform sneakers. “I’ve been thinking,” she says, “about the cabby’s description of the perp. His nonchalance, the way he didn’t seem to give a fuck about anything. I’m pretty sure he’s what Gypsies call marime. Like cops only hang with cops, Gypsies only hang with Gypsies, only it’s much stricter. If you do something seriously wrong, you run the risk of marime. That means you’re shunned, and banned from all contact. For a Gypsy, that’s even worse than it would be for a cop, and that’s how our perp is behaving, like a man with nothing to lose.”
“You were getting close,” says K, “so they cut him loose.”
“I think so. And now he’s pushing back.”
A young musician walks by, carrying a guitar case.
“You never told me about Axl’s show at Lakeside,” says Krekorian.
“It was great.”
“The kid has talent.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The conversation turns O’Hara somber. She wonders if Axl will end up on Behind the Music or behind the counter of a Burger King. For a rocker, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot in between.
“Check it out,” says Krekorian. He points at the cab that’s pulled to a stop on the east side of Third. The light on the roof switches from yellow to white, and after a long pause the back door opens on the traffic side. It takes another minute for a black porkpie hat to pop above the door and an immense rectangle of a man to emerge. As he walks around the back of the cab, he moves less like a person than a wave.
CHAPTER 59
FUDGESICLE LEANS OVER a curbside counter, grabs a slice, and continues north, a paper plate folded in one hand, a Duane Reade shopping bag dangling from the other. He wears a white V-neck tee and light blue surgical scrubs, and O’Hara is amazed by how little attention an obese sociopath in a porkpie hat and translucent pants receives at 3:45 a.m. in the East Village on a summer night. For O’Hara the sight of the long-sought perp releases so much adrenaline, it’s a struggle to think clearly, but to pedestrians, who surrender the curb to let him pass, he is a jet-lagged tourist who stepped out for a slice and a toothbrush, or a hospital orderly just off work. He doesn’t rate a second look. O’Hara suspects the incongruous hipster lid is part of it. Somehow, it helps him blend in.
Moving directly toward them up Third, Fudgesicle appears smaller and larger than his description, more like five-nine than five-eleven but also significantly heavier, as if he’s packed on another hundred pounds since the last entry into the database. His face is more bloated than in the picture, his eyes little more than slits, and, with those thirty-eight seconds of video fresh in her mind, there’s something obscene about the laxness in his face and the way he’s barely contained by his clothes.
“We got to call backup,” says Krekorian as he reaches into the glove compartment for the Taser, and attaches it to his belt. “He makes Goodman look like Buscemi. I don’t think I’ll be able to cuff him.”
“If the two of us can’t arrest this load of shit, we should pack it in. He can barely walk.”
“He moved well enough to stomp his partner to death.”
“Let’s see where he’s headed. It’s too crowded to grab him on the street anyway. Particularly if he’s got a piece.”
When Fudgesicle gets within thirty feet, O’Hara and K scramble out of the car, and when he turns east on St. Mark’s, they dodge the two-way traffic on Third and trail him from the north side of the street. From behind, Fudgesicle only appears to be rocking from side to side, his weight shifting from the outside of one green shoe to the other, yet somehow that propels him past a sunglass stall and a sports bar, where the jersey of the pitcher on TV is reflected in the window. A couple steps before Trash & Vaudeville, he turns his back on them again, and when he hitches up his pants and steps into the narrow entrance of the St. Marks Hotel, O’Hara sees that he’s wearing lime green Crocs.
“So now we call backup,” says K.
For a second, O’Hara doesn’t respond. She’s back in Sarasota in the foul-smelling efficiency with the grifter mom, the man on the toilet, and the scruffy girl staring at the TV. It’s doubtful that under any circumstances, O’Hara would have the wherewithal to twiddle her thumbs on the curb as the perp disappeared into the hotel, but after realizing that she had been within fifteen feet of him before, it’s impossible.
“We do that,” says O’Hara, “brass will close off the whole street and turn a simple arrest into Iraq. I’ve been this close to this motherfucker for weeks. I’m not going wait around all night while they play soldier.”
“The perp’s not going anywhere, Dar. We have time to do this right.”
“Let’s give him five minutes to get to his room. We don’t need a shootout in the lobby. Give him a chance to get separated from his gun, if he has one, maybe fall asleep. Then we go in and suss it out. If it’s more than we can handle, we call in the cavalry.”
Although O’Hara’s voice sounds reasonable, the words coming out of her mouth aren’t, and even she knows it. For a couple minutes, the two stare across the street at the fleabag SRO turned cut-rate tourist motel, the more astute hustlers in the crowd noting the twin bulges beneath Krekorian’s blazer.
Since logic didn’t work, Krekorian appeals to her self-interest.
“We need someone to cover the exit. What if he makes us, goes out a back door, and hails a cab. I know you’ve been on this guy for a long time. All the more reason you don’t want to be the one responsible for letting him slip away.”
“You’re right,” says O’Hara, stepping off the curb and nearly into the path of an eastbound cab. “We got to go in now.”
CHAPTER 60
DESPITE O’HARA’S HEAD start, Krekorian reaches the entrance ahead of her. His gun, already out of the holster, is against his hip. There’s no space in the old flophouse for a lobby, just another corri
dor that runs past a tiny office to the ground-floor rooms. The night clerk, a short-haired woman, sits in front of a computer screen. A lip ring centers her earnest midwestern face and a vinelike tat crawls out from under her shirt at the elbow and neck.
As O’Hara displays her shield, she reads the girl’s name on the tag pinned to her shirt. “Anna,” says O’Hara in a soft voice. “I’m Detective Darlene O’Hara, and this is my partner, Serge Krekorian. The large man who just entered the hotel fits the description of an important suspect. Did you see him go into his room?”
“There’s nowhere else he could have gone.”
“How about a fire exit?”
“That would have set off an alarm.”
“Does his room have a window?”
“Not one that opens.”
“What room is he in?”
“One eleven,” she says, glancing at her screen. “Registered as Bob Geis.”
“Anyone with him?”
“No.”
“Has he had any visitors?”
“Not since I arrived at midnight.”
“How about the rooms next door and above him?” asks Krekorian. “Are they occupied?”
Anna looks at her screen and shakes her head. “We have fourteen guests tonight. Except for an elderly man at the other end of the hall, they are on the top two floors. Most guests request that, but we don’t have an elevator.”
Krekorian, who now holds his gun in his jacket pocket, gestures at the computer. “Is there any way you can tell us what’s going on in his room?”
“Only if he’s on the phone or ordering a movie,” says Anna. “He’s not.”
“We’re going to take a look,” says O’Hara, and slips down the hallway so quickly Krekorian has to hustle to catch up.
“You’re scaring me, Darlene. You’re moving too fast. You don’t have a plan.”
“My plan is to arrest this motherfucker and put him in the box. I have some questions to ask him.”
“You’re not thinking straight.”
“Just want to take a look.”
The two follow the ratty red runner down the hallway. The city is sprinkled with fleabags transformed into cash cows with little more than paint and wallpaper, but here its humble history is particularly transparent. The only flourish is a couple Mediterranean window scenes in recessed spots on the wall. Room 111, the second to last on the right, has a red door and gold numbers. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hangs from the knob.
Krekorian pulls out his gun, and O’Hara puts her ear against the door. She can’t hear a thing, but considering the number of rock shows she’s attended and her notion that earplugs are for pussies, that doesn’t mean much. She crouches at the foot of the door and presses her fingers against the synthetic fiber, trying to clear enough space below the door to see if the lights are on inside, but the rug is too thick. It’s also damp, and when she glances up and mouths the word “wet” for Krekorian, she sees that the placard dangling off the knob is wet too.
While K guards the door, O’Hara goes back to the office and returns with a coded card she uses to unlock 113, the room next door. O’Hara sees why they only get $119 a night. It’s barely big enough for a queen-size bed. Instead of a closet, there’s a coffin-shaped frame against one wall with a couple hangers. Above the bed is a photo of an Italian village, and beside it, on a tiny table, a stack of tinfoil ashtrays. The bathroom has a shower in the corner and black-and-white tiles. When O’Hara leans against the tiles, she can hear the shower running next door. “The guy’s in the shower,” she whispers when she steps back into the hallway.
“Maybe,” says K, his eyes dark and angry. “Or maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s on the other side, waiting for us.”
CHAPTER 61
O’HARA SLIPS THE card into the lock and leads Krekorian inside. Between the closet, bed, and the wall, there is barely room for her and K to stand. In front of them, inches from the barrels of their guns, is the bathroom door. From behind it comes the sound of running water and nothing else.
O’Hara scans the cluttered space for the weapon. Clothes and trash, tossed everywhere, fouls the air. On top of the closet are the orange-stained wax paper and plate from his last meal, and hanging off the corner of the bed, a pair of mighty whities the size of a pillowcase. Maybe the gun is in the shopping bag, but O’Hara can’t find the bag until she looks down and sees she’s standing next to it. Inside, thousands in loose bills are piled like leaves, but there’s no gun.
That could mean he didn’t have one, or it’s somewhere else in the room, or he’s holding it in his hand on the other side of the door. In an instant, all the urgency and crap thinking of the last twenty minutes come back as its B side—panic. For the first time since she rushed them into the hotel, O’Hara appreciates the danger she has put them both in, and as she looks over at her partner, her vision tunnels.
Because O’Hara led them into the room, Krekorian stands directly in front of the bathroom door, with O’Hara just beyond him. Is K seconds away from getting shot? Is she about to get her partner killed? In her hand is a weapon O’Hara has never drawn in the field till now. The last time she fired it was ten months ago at the range for her annual certification.
O’Hara stares at the bathroom door and listens to the running shower. She wills the spout to be turned off and the water to stop, and to hear the scrape of grommets as the shower curtain is swept aside, but none of those things happen. All she hears is rushing water. When O’Hara glances at K’s bullet-shaped head, his eyes are focused on the door.
If the perp has a gun in his hand, every second they delay increases their chances of getting shot. She tries to think clearly, but how can she when the reason they’re in this position is that she hasn’t been thinking at all? Instead, she reaches for the rage that has never been far since she saw the handprints in blood on the metal wall of the van, and turns the handle of the bathroom door.
Like the rug, it’s wet, and slips in her hand. When she tries again and pushes it open, steam billows into her face, blinding her, and for the second time in a minute, she stands frozen, waiting to be run over or shot. Krekorian reaches behind her and opens the door to the hallway. Enough steam escapes for her to make out a shape in the shower. “Police officers,” says Krekorian. “Turn off the water.”
The perp doesn’t respond, and Krekorian says it louder. “Police officers. Turn off the water.” As more steam clears, O’Hara has a better view of the pale figure wedged into the corner behind the clear plastic. His dark hair is bent under the shower head, and the water cascades off his massive back. O’Hara is struck by the paleness of his shoulders, the tops pink from the rush of scalding water. For a second she wonders if they got the wrong guy.
“Police,” says O’Hara. “Get the fuck out of the shower.”
When O’Hara turns toward Krekorian again, he has transferred his revolver to his holster and is holding the Taser. He raises the weapon to the level of the perp’s elbow, slips his finger over the trigger, and inches forward until the front of the device almost touches the shower curtain.
“Hold on a second,” says O’Hara. She takes in the forward tilt of the perp’s head, then sweeps the shower curtain aside. Fudgesicle’s jowls are on his chest, and his arms at his side, but except for the angle of his neck and slack arms, nothing stands out, until she moves to the side and sees the part of his chest the water didn’t reach. Running from neck to navel is a deep maroon stain that fans out like a ’70s tie, and lying across the drain between enormous lime green Crocs is a straight-edged razor.
“I’ll say one thing,” says K.
“What?”
“Great water pressure.”
CHAPTER 62
KREKORIAN CRACKS HIS knuckles and squints into the sun. At 7:45 in the morning, St Mark’s is far quieter than at 3:00 a.m. Except for a couple employed outliers hustling to the subway, the side
walks are empty.
“Breakfast?”
“I was leaning toward a drink,” says O’Hara.
When they arrive, Milano’s has only been open for minutes, but O’Hara’s two fellow regulars are already perched on their self-assigned stools. Neither looks up as O’Hara and Krekorian sit between them.
“Good morning, Darlene,” says Holly.
“Good morning. Holly, this is Serge.”
“What can I get you?”
“A Guinness.”
“And you, Darlene, the usual?”
“Please.”
Krekorian waits for Holly to deliver their drinks and walk away. “ ‘Good morning, Darlene,’ ” he mimics. “ ‘Good morning, Holly.’ ‘The usual, Darlene?’ What the hell is wrong with you? You got exactly what you wanted. You made homicide at thirty-five. And you start your day here? You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Isn’t that a good thing, in a way?”
“Actually it’s not. The idea of life is to change. That’s the point.”
“Really? No one told me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
Krekorian is too weary to press the matter. He drains half his pint in one long sip, sits back in his stool, and closes his eyes. O’Hara is exhausted too, and in the last few minutes her spirits have dipped. Seeing Fudgesicle wedged under the shower head, so drained of blood he looked like an albino, was not unsatisfying, particularly since it’s what he did to the boy, but it keeps him out of the box and keeps her from ever finding out how he could toss away the boy’s life so cavalierly. She wanted to put him face-to-face with what he had done, and now she can’t.
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