Christ, last night really rattled her. Running is the worst thing she can do. If she has nothing to hide.
“For what?”
“We’ll think of something.”
“If I heard that, I’d run too. She says no one will believe her about the radio call.”
“Don’t flack for her.” Trunk rose, slamming his hands down on the desk. The stained red-and-white chicken bucket leapt three inches. A couple of detectives nearby looked up. “No one else heard the damn call. No. One. I’m working on the murder of a brother officer. I’m not interested in the shit that’s being made up.”
“Why make it up?”
“Makes me think police girl failed her partner. Or worse.”
“That’s a theory. Here’s something you haven’t heard yet. Last night Callahan and I were jumped in Washington Square. Three guys in Halloween masks carrying nightsticks—the regulation type they don’t sell at your local costume shop. She was threatened. They told her to stop talking about the radio call. Her only option was to admit to what you just suggested. We got out of it, but were chased by the three, plus two in uniform. Who’s trying to shut her up? Why?”
“You got proof?”
“Callahan was there.”
“She’s not here. In police work, we call that an admission of guilt.” Trunk sat back down, eying Taylor. News of the attack seemed to have gotten a little of his attention, at least that part not claimed by his appetite. He reached in the bucket and pulled out a drumstick.
“Track down Mort’s gun yet?”
“No comment.”
Taylor wrote in the notebook, mouthing just no.
“Any leads on Mort?”
“You’re going to tell me you’ve got one.”
“Don’t know where he’s from, but a source says he came to the neighborhood from somewhere outside the city. Had a family he visited. Well off. Didn’t need to squat.”
“We only found dog shit in his place.”
Taylor flipped back in his notebook to the pages from yesterday. “Mort’s own dog, Moon, is buried in Tompkins Square. Was killed before he was. There’s a sign on the grave. Reads, ‘Rest in deepest peace, dear Moon. I didn’t believe he’d kill you. Now I must do worse to save the others.’ ”
“What is this, puzzle time?”
“Sounds like Mort was being coerced.”
“Sounds, huh? You get a lot from a little sign. How do you even know there’s a dead dog there? Now you are wasting my time.”
“Anything of value in that briefcase?”
Trunk put down the drumstick. He didn’t turn his head. Instead, his eyes, which now had a worried look, checked behind Taylor and to either side. He picked up a pen, wrote on a small piece of paper and pushed the paper toward Taylor while keeping his greasy fingers on it. The boxy cursive read, “Above my pay grade. Leave it if you’re smart.” He pulled the paper back, tore it into little pieces, and sprinkled them into the bucket.
“You tell pretty little Samantha, if she’s got any brains in that redheaded skull of hers,” Trunk raised his voice for the benefit of the room, “she’ll get in here and explain herself. Yesterday.”
As he walked down the stairs, Taylor wondered at the worry that came into Trunk’s eyes when Taylor hinted at the bonds. That was the most important thing he’d gotten out of the interview. For the moment, at least. The corrupt cops. The attack. Telling the detective about all that had been designed to shake something loose. He just hoped whatever it was didn’t drop right on his head.
Chapter 12
Television was the band on the bill at CBGB that Saturday night. Taylor liked the group well enough, but they’d have a hard time topping the three shows the Ramones had put on last weekend. Each night he’d stood at the back of the small performance space. The punks had pogoed in front of him—something Taylor would never do. Instead, he’d let the raw rush of sound wash over him and rattle the buzz from a whole bunch of ponies. The Ramones, leather jackets and shaggy black hair, rocketed through the show. The song “Blitzkrieg Bop” said it all. The Ramones’ bop was a blitzkrieg of sound.
It was probably a good thing the Ramones weren’t in their regular New York home tonight, or he might have been distracted from what he needed to get done. As Frederick the Dutch dealt drinks to Television fans, Taylor waited to get more information on Johnny Mort. Punks in leather with hair sticking at odd angles poured alcohol down their throats. They were a tough looking tribe. They smashed into each other hard and called that dancing. Tonight, as every night, they left Taylor in peace, and from what he could tell, did the same with any newcomer.
Frederick the Dutch opened three Schlitz in quick succession—fitz, fitz, fitz. “Everything I knew of poor Johnny I told you. But I remember after you left who you need to talk with. His friend Billy—” Frederick waved over Taylor’s shoulder. “Billy, get over here!” A tall, lanky man in his twenties squeezed through the crowd, his hair a copy of the shaggy mops the Ramones wore. “Taylor’s a regular.” Billy looked at Taylor, from his faded cords to his field jacket, with surprise. “He’s also a reporter. He’s doing a story on Johnny Mort.”
“Pigs killed him.” Billy’s light brown eyes dared Taylor to challenge that declaration.
“You knew him well?”
“We came to the city together. From Chap. Johnny would never use a gun, much less shoot a cop. Shit, I had to get him off the floor when the dancing really got going because he’d get hurt. Didn’t have a violent bone in his body. Just loved the music and those dogs. He was set up, somehow, someway.”
A setup, yes. But both Mort and Dodd?
“Chap?”
“Chappaqua. Couldn’t wait to get out of that shithole.”
If Chappaqua’s a shithole, the Waldorf’s a flophouse.
“Did you two share the squat?”
“About a month. Then I met Lacey. We moved in together.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Two nights before the shooting. In here. Kind of quiet for this place. We were talking about those fucking amazing Ramones shows. He’d missed one ’cause of lack of dough. Both our dads cut us off. Pricks. Lace’s old man gives her tons of cash. She just has to say she loves him and out comes the fat wallet.”
“Do you have the family’s address?”
“Mohegan Drive. Number forty-two. His name was actually John Mortelli. Took the new one when he came down here. Mort is some kind of word for death. Johnny was smart that way. Always playing with words.”
“Does Johnny’s family know?”
“Dunno. I haven’t told them. I don’t want to get near his father. I’d do something Johnny never would.”
“What’s that?”
“Smash him in the fucking face.”
A young blonde woman with a Blondie haircut tugged on the leather sleeve of Billy’s jacket. They both walked away. Taylor flagged Frederick for another pony, then sat to consider the new break in the story. Two men in their twenties had come down to join the punk scene from Chappaqua, a plush Westchester County suburb culturally a million miles from the Lower Eastside. A chill walked down Taylor’s spine as he worked over the knowledge. It was good for the story, but it meant he’d have to go grave digging again. This wasn’t something you did on the phone, if for no other reason that he only had Billy’s word on the ID. With this kind of news you had to be very careful and very sure.
He usually gave himself Sunday off. It was a tough day to track anyone down, including cops and criminals. He’d be working tomorrow.
Taylor spent the better part of three hours getting to Chappaqua. He was forced to take two buses, the subway, and the New York Central’s Harlem Line to the Chappaqua station. The trip put him in a foul mood. Taylor was a man of the subways, which whisked him wherever he needed to go. The catastrophic noise, dirt, and graffiti didn’t matter. The subways still ran, more or less, and they’d take you anywhere quickly, more or less. Anywhere in New York City. Today was one of the few times
he wished he owned a car. He and Laura had used one of her father’s when the need arose. That thought layered a familiar sadness over his sour mood. Waiting for the local cab service—which appeared to have one car—took another 20 minutes.
The house at 42 Mohegan Drive didn’t disappoint. A big white colonial with black shutters on a lot Taylor imagined you could farm. The neighboring houses, which weren’t very neighboring given the lot sizes, were similar in appearance, as if the owners all wanted to impress, but in exactly the same way.
Taylor rang the doorbell at 1:40 p.m. A man with slicked back dark hair answered. He had on a pink polyester shirt and flared pants the same color. His cologne of musk and pine trees greeted Taylor first.
“Mr. Anthony Mortelli?”
“We’re not buying anything, and we’re not Jehovah’s witnessing. Go away.”
“I’m from the Messenger-Telegram.”
“My wife takes care of the paperboy. She’s down at the club.” He moved to shut the door.
“I’m a reporter. It’s about your son, John.”
The door swung open. Mortelli stepped out, looked back into the house, let the door close behind him, and stood on the big front porch of his big house.
“What’s the little shit done?”
“I’m sorry. This may be very bad news. He may have been involved in a police shooting. A man using the name Johnny Mort was killed three days ago in an exchange of fire with a police officer. You probably read about it.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “I stopped reading. Too many shootings. Why the hell do you think I live out here?” Mortelli slumped into a red-cushioned, white whicker chair, which squeaked as it gave under his weight. “You sure it’s him?”
“No I’m not—”
“Then why are you coming around telling stories?” The chest puffed out. “The police should be contacting me.”
“The Johnny Mort who was killed didn’t have ID. I tracked him down to a squat where he was living with several rescued dogs.”
“John claimed he was taking care of some mutts the last time he asked for money.” Mortelli spoke like it was a revelation. “I said no.”
“I got your address from a friend of Johnny’s. Billy. He said Johnny was actually John Mortelli.”
“Bill Wilkerson?”
“He said they moved to the Lower Eastside together.”
“Bill’s the little fuck who ruined John. Got him into that music and the drugs. If he’s dead, it’s because of Bill Wilkerson.”
“I’m very sorry. The police will want you to identify him. Can I see a picture?”
Mortelli reached for his wallet, stopped. “No, I took it out.”
The screen door opened and a teenaged girl joined them. She wore a T-shirt like a dress, with a thick white belt around her waist. Long slender thighs ran from the T-shirt to knee-high white boots. Taylor had seen the same outfit on a member of one of the disco bands. It was in a wire service picture. ABBA, maybe?
The girl put a hand on one hip. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Go inside and get me the picture of John from the piano.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Just do it.”
The girl left, swinging her hips like she’d learned how to do it yesterday and really needed to show off the skill. When she returned, she handed the framed picture to her father.
“I’ll be inside in a minute.”
“I want to know what’s going on.” Her voice stretched to a whine.
“If you don’t go inside now, you won’t get a ride to Lorraine’s when I head to the club.”
“Christ, everything is threats around here.”
The hips swung back into the house. Mortelli passed the picture to Taylor. He’d gotten a good look at the dead punk in the abandoned building. The picture was that man, minus the spider tattoo. He nodded. “I’m very sorry. Do you want me to let the detectives know?”
“I don’t care. Do what you do. His mother’s going to blame me. It’s all going to be my fault. She said we should give him money. What for? To flush down the toilet. That’s what. It started with the music and trips to the city. Then he drops out. I said it had to stop. I’ve got a good job at the bank. I’ve got connections. In this economy you need connections. He wants nothing to do with it. Drops out of Marist College. Lives here for two years mooching off us then leaves. He prefers stray dogs and living in some wreck and listening to noise.”
He put his head in hands. He groaned briefly like he hurt and got up.
“I need a drink.”
The father disappeared inside the house. The door shut, and the sound transformed into the lock clicking at the apartment of Taylor’s father Halloween night. He’d spent the hours since then trying not to replay the professor’s ranting. He couldn’t help it now. This father’s reaction brought it all back. The drunken insults about Taylor’s work. The lies about his brother thrown in for good measure. Would his father be as cold as Mortelli if Taylor died? Or would he get so drunk he wouldn’t know what had happened? That’s what he’d done after the telegram about Billy. MIA in Vietnam. Still MIA, and the war over and forgotten.
Taylor was certain of one thing. Now he wouldn’t stop until he found out what happened to John Mortelli. And why. The more a victim was alone in the world, the more Taylor wanted to tell their story. That was the legacy of his brother’s loss. That and the way he missed Billy. The gloom was always somewhere in the back of his mind, shifting around, roaring forward at moments like this.
He had more to ask. Was Mortelli really the gentle young man who would need to be coerced to take up a gun and mug a woman?
But here was another problem with grave digging. He’d confirmed the victim’s identity, which would make a good follow-up story, but he wouldn’t be able to ask any more questions today. He had to leave the family in peace.
When Taylor got to the newsroom, he found three guys in sports. One was working on the Jets’ loss to Buffalo at Shea. Most of those cops at Kathy Dodd’s house weren’t going to be happy. The weekend editor was at the city desk.
Taylor called the Ninth Precinct. Trunk wasn’t in. He told the detective he reached about John Mortelli. The cop went from bored to disbelief to anger when he realized Taylor was ahead of the investigators. He hung up when Taylor asked for a quote. Typical.
Taylor wrote a story profiling John Mortelli, including his gentle nature, his family in Westchester, the stray dogs, and the odd death of his own dog, Moon.
Turning in the story to the weekend editor reset the internal reporter’s clock that made him more anxious the longer he went without a story in the paper. A story on Sunday was a special gift. He was all but guaranteed good play.
Again, he left the $250,000 in bonds out of the story. He’d thought about that a long time. He’d seen them and he could say he’d seen them. He had no context for them. No, it wasn’t that. If you knew something, you could put it in the story, and to hell with context. Trunk’s note worried Taylor. Novak’s advice worried him even more. He may have ignored the financial crisis as not his beat, so not his business. But New York was his city. He didn’t want to be the one to push the city off the cliff, at least not until he understood the reason for the push. It was a tough call. Stories almost always came first.
Chapter 13
Mason led Taylor on their morning walk down City Island Avenue. This was his new routine, and he was getting to like it. He got up and moving a little earlier in the mornings. On the days after he had a few too many little beers, the walk cleared his head that much quicker. At the corner diner—the only place on the island owned by Greeks—he bought a coffee and bacon-and-egg on a hard roll to go.
Three days had passed since his story on John Mortelli had run. The News and the Post both followed with their usual zeal. The Times ignored it, which was pretty standard. The Gray Lady would do as she would, which usually meant writing a story when she could be all-encompassing. That was assuming a double killing
in Alphabet City was something she cared about at all. The financial crisis and Ford firing his defense secretary and CIA chief had dominated the Times this week. The only crime story had appeared way back on Saturday, when the paper played the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl named Martha Moxley at the very bottom of page one. The killing occurred in Greenwich, Connecticut. At the Times, it was all about geography.
Taylor didn’t care. His little scoop might actually have made Worthless happy. Not that the city editor had said anything. No, that was asking too much. But he’d stayed off Taylor’s back for two full days. Might also be because Worth was so distracted. He’d been in lots of meetings with Editor-in-Chief Oscar Garfield and the other department heads. Rumors were whipping around the MT’s newsroom at the speed rumors can travel only among journalists—close to that of light. Taylor heard them all. The paper’s financial problems were deepening. Layoffs were coming. Another merger. Taylor, working his sources close to Garfield as hard as anyone, couldn’t confirm any of it. The MT had had a lot of close calls in his 17 years. Things had really gotten scary when four other New York dailies closed in the middle of the ’60s. Somehow, the Garfield family had pulled through, merging with the New York Messenger and bringing in the New Haven Life Insurance Company as an investor.
Were things really worse this time?
Taylor tried to look to a future where he wasn’t chasing police stories for the Messenger-Telegram. Nothing. The emptiness of a direction never considered. His gut tightened like a hand was squeezing it. What would he do if he didn’t have this job? He hadn’t made any connections with editors at the other papers. He wasn’t that kind of schmoozer. Cops, lawyers, and a fair number of villains. Those were his contacts.
No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened. The hand squeezed tighter still. Get the story. Then get the next one.
The sandwich he carried was supposed to be for back at the houseboat. Now he would have to get his appetite back. In the end, that didn’t turn out to be the biggest problem of the morning. He and Mason turned the corner at Reville Street onto King Avenue, which ran along the small Pelham Cemetery, City Island’s only place of burial. The dead had a great view of the sound.
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