The kid left Mallory in the doorway and stiffly walked past Gunner. Spiky hair, sprayed red along the tips, failed to raise the intelligence quotient of his appearance. His baffled gaze wandered between his mother and Gunner.
The detective snapped thick fingers in front of the teen’s eyes. He spoke rapid fire, with an edge Mallory had seen him use during intense interrogations. “Wake up kid, this just got serious. Maternal abuse is a crime punishable by up to 18 months in prison. Not kiddie lock-up, either, son. You wanna act like a ‘man’? It’s Riker’s Island for you, boy, thrown in with big, nasty, beasts with their own brutal ideas of how to treat you like a man.”
The kid swallowed, eyes growing wide.
“But this is the first time I’ve had to come here, so I’ll give ya a chance. If your mother will be kind enough to grant me use of the lavatory, I will give you the time I’m in there to make things right with her, or we take you to Riker’s immediately, hold you there until a hearing can be arranged, probably in about three months. But don’t worry, you’ll have lots of new roommates to be a man around.” Gunner smiled, wide and malicious, whispering so just the kid could hear. “And them boys gonna be real glad to meetcha.”
Mom nodded, pointed the way to the bathroom. Gunner moved like The Flash.
The boy stared after Gunner blankly, saying and doing nothing for a long minute, until the flushing toilet spurred him to action. He whipped a glance at Mallory, who smiled at him with just enough menace to completely unsettle the boy, then turned to his mother. “I’m sorry, Ma. I was outta line.”
“Look, Johnny, I’ll tell ya what; you don’t agree with something I say, we can sit and talk about it. And I mean talk, not scream. You wanna do that?”
The kid cast down his eyes. The bathroom door opened. The kid’s eyes leapt back up. “Yes. Great. Deal.”
Gunner came out, looked at the Mom with a sympathy that was almost romantic. He left his sympathy with her, coldly holding the kid’s eyes with his own, raising an eyebrow.
“We worked it out, detective. Um, sir.”
“Good to hear.” Gunner kept his stare locked on the boy then nodded his head toward the hot mom. Johnny sighed, stepped over, kissed her lightly on the cheek, like she might be a distant aunt with a mustache. But it was enough. Mom broke, hugged her son close, tears flowing. Gunner quietly walked past, dropped his card on the dining room table. He and Mallory left.
On the stairs again, Mallory chuckled. “I just can’t believe you sometimes.”
Gunner smiled. “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“You’ve got some set.”
“And if she wants to thank me, I’ll gladly show them to her.”
Mallory found apartment 3-E immediately to the right of the next staircase landing.
Gunner exhaled. “This is the part of the job I hate the most.”
“That’s only because you’ve never been shot.” Mallory hesitated, sighed, then forced himself to push the doorbell. His stomach muscles tightened as he heard slippers shuffle toward them. The peephole cover slid back. A small muffled gasp chilled his heart. Always did.
Then, a quiet, scared voice from behind the door, “Bill….”
Heavier feet slapped the floor now, faster. A flash of light shone through the peephole as the owner of the female voice moved away, then went dark again as Bill looked through. Mallory held up his shield.
“I told you. I told you,” Bill said.
He opened the door wide, eyes squinting. Framed by closely trimmed gray hair, Bill’s face was a deeply lined map of cynical expectation. “Tell us you found him. Tell us he’s under arrest, he’s sleeping it off, he’s in any kind of trouble… just don’t tell us he’s the headline.”
Mallory glanced at Gunner, who gave the slightest of shrugs. Bill pushed the door back as far as it would go. “C’mon.”
They stepped in, Mallory noting the linoleum, probably about fifteen years old, impeccably clean. As was the china closet, standing uncomfortably close to the immaculate dining table, which was situated only two feet from a doorway to a sparkling kitchen. Ten feet into the apartment, they were past the dining area and into a spotless, doily-infested living room. Both end tables wore doilies. The coffee table wore three. The arms of the couch wore them too. The television top wore its doily like a beret, slid to one side. From under all that ironed, white cloth gleamed highly polished cherry pine, and, in the case of the seating, muted maroon plaid. The floor here was parquet, pristine, perfect. They stood on a plastic runner that protected the well-kept flooring from the entrance door, passed the dining area, through the living room, to the back rooms. Mallory made sure not to step off the runner.
Bill placed the main section of the Sunday Daily News on the coffee table, atop the middle doily, angled so they could read the headline:
WHO YOU
KIDDING?
MAYOR VOWS TO FAST CLOSE
TO “SAFE SUBWAYS” MURDER
A nighttime picture of detectives looking down into the subway entrance at 10th and W. 215th street took up the bottom half of the page.
“So tell me good news, detectives,” Bill kept his voice even, his hands steady on the gleaming cherry wood arms of the wingback chair on which he sat. “Tell me my boy’s in Riker’s, or in a hospital, or on the run. Give me hope.”
Gunner swallowed so loud it distracted everyone. Mallory let a long, slow sigh do his dirty work.
Mrs. Hill, a small woman dressed in black pants, a white blouse, light gray knit sweater, and a white linen apron that approximated the doilies, collapsed onto the maroon plaid of the couch. For a brief, disorienting moment it appeared to Mallory that she was surrounded by murky blood. She covered her face with her hands, bending into an almost fetal position from which she wept in agonizing silence.
Bill held the highly glossed wooden arms of his chair like they were his last remaining handles on the world.
Mallory’s eyes roamed the room in an attempt to give the Hills some privacy. Every wall and shelf held a picture of the late William D. Hill. As a baby propped up under a soft blue blanket. In his first grade portrait, front tooth missing. As a Little Leaguer, bat over his shoulder, eyes shining with pride. As a Pop Warner football player, shoulder pads and enormous helmet rendering him delightfully cartoonish. In one of those multi-photo frames, with Will as an older boy, then a teen. His face grew harder, the most recent version scowling, serving up that thug mug every New York City boy felt obliged to approximate. Preventing that look from developing in his own kids’ faces was one of the reasons Mallory had moved the family to Rockland County.
And then there was the family portrait. The largest item on any of the walls, it featured Willie at about 10, mischief in his eyes. He stood before a younger, less careworn version of Mrs. Hill, her plain face beautiful here, radiating maternal pride. With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Bill Hill stood behind them both, serious and proud, dignity evident in those reserved blue eyes. He had more hair then, of a darker hue. Mallory noted the years had not beaten Bill Hill down, merely refined the conviction displayed here, the belief in this family as the centerpiece of his world.
The portrait was slightly askew.
Bill looked up, dry-eyed, and asked, “Where do we go to identify the body?”
Mallory, failed to respond. Gunner glanced at him, told them, then placed his card on the doilied coffee table, next to the Daily News headline. “Sir, we need to talk with anyone who may have gone to the concert with William. Their statements could prove vital to our investigation.”
Mallory watched Bill’s hands grip the chair arms more tightly. “That crew of louts who hang out over in Dyker Park, under the Belt Parkway. Always skateboarding back and forth in endless circles, the jerks. Ronnie Charles. Paul Celestine. They’re two of the regulars anyway.” His fingers were red, the knuckles white. His hands began to shake, then his forearms. “My son backed up those losers in many a useless battle. Where was even one of those bums whe
n he needed them?”
With that, William Hill, Sr. snapped the cherry wood arms right off his wingback chair. He paused, then let them fall from his grip. The detectives refused to notice.
The father rubbed his palms together as if dusting them off. “Go there. Beat the information out of them if necessary. Then find this murderer. Get him off the streets. Shoot him if you can manage it.”
Gunner walked behind Mallory silently until they were down in the lobby. Stepping up alongside him, he spoke, not making eye contact. “Hey, I noticed them too. Doesn’t mean shit. You know the deal. This is work. That’s your life. Never the twain shall meet.”
“Damn right,” Mallory lied.
EIGHT
Dyker Park was actually named Bensonhurst Park, but Mallory had known what Mr. Hill meant. A long stretch of recreational land alongside Gravesend Bay over which the Belt Parkway spread a continuous flow of gas fumes, the park was a significant distance from the Hills’ apartment, but maybe Willie had liked it that way.
The entrance to the park was on Cropsey Avenue, but the rest stretched back to the shore line, which lent the entire place a bit of citified ocean fragrance which most often came off as a light stench reminiscent of really bad eggs.
Mallory remembered the park being included in a recent report on New York City playgrounds. This particular marvel of city engineering had earned violations for unsafe surfaces, dangerous playground equipment, head entrapment risks, and the ever popular toxic playground risk.
Blissfully ignorant of all this were the teens hanging out around the handball courts. These concrete slabs were home to Willie’s friends. Mallory knew the type. They wore uniforms of individuality designed to show they weren’t assholes like the rest of the world. Every one of them wore pullovers. No button shirts at all. Buttons were gay. Most wore shorts so long they actually looked like baggy high-waters that almost, but not quite, touched the tops of their beat up construction boots. A few had iPods or iTouches turned up so loud the detectives could hear the shrill gnashing of guitars as they approached. One or two glided by on skateboards, failing at jumps and battering themselves with other poorly executed, life-threatening moves. An amusing number of them wore thick woolen knit hats pulled down over their ears despite the relative warmth of the day.
As Mallory and Gunner approached, they could hear a fierce debate.
The first skateboarder, who wore his hat so high on his head that he looked like the Pope, was adamant. “C’mon, Onimosha2 ruled then, and it still does. Nothing can touch it, dude, nothing.”
A second hat finished rolling a cigar-sized joint, slobbering it together while he spoke. “Every version of Call of Duty kicked its ass, ball licker.”
“Suck my dick.”
Pope feigned outrage. “How fucking gay can you get?”
A hulking, square-shouldered kid with a cigarette in his mouth waved them all off. “The Final Fantasy series. End of fucking story. Nothing coming out touches them.”
“Yeah,” they harmonized, completely awed.
The big kid smirked at yet another hat, this one a red-and-white Dr. Seuss job, under which sat a silently grinning fool. “Chicken choker over there won’t say it, but he still strokes to Tomb Raider.”
The kids laughed, even Dr. Seuss. He nodded incessantly. “She’s my bitch.”
The second kid was firing up his blunt when he noticed Mallory and Gunner standing there, smiling at him. He nonchalantly tossed it behind his back as if he believed the detectives wouldn’t notice.
“Don’t let that sit in the grass too long, brother,” Gunner offered. “A rat will run off with it. To a spliffed up, munchie-crazed rat, you’d look like a Cheese Doodle.”
Pope, oblivious to who they might be, tried bravado. “Forget these guys. They’re gay. Come in the park to suck each other’s—”
Gunner stepped over to him with so much malice the kid gagged on his words. “Finish that sentence and I will re-arrange you so thoroughly you’ll be able to perform the activity you love talking about on yourself.”
Mallory stepped up. “Fellas, we are cops, but relax. This is not a bust. We’re looking for some help, that’s all.”
“Suck my—” The kid snapped his head toward Gunner, who raised a hand. The kid ducked down.
Mallory continued. “Ronnie Charles? Paul Celestine?”
The biggest kid leveled one eye at Mallory, the other hidden under a greasy tuft of hair. “I’m Ron. The kid with the oral sex fixation is Paul. What do you want?”
“When was the last time you saw Willie Hill?”
Recognition splashed across every face. They all shut up. It was clear to Mallory they didn’t know. “He’s not wanted, or arrested. He’s dead.”
Ronnie spit. “The fuck you talking’bout?”
Gunner glared. “Watch your mouth.”
Mallory waved off his partner. “We know some of you saw The Who with Willie last night. We also know Willie threw the bottle. After he left, somebody followed him.”
Gunner added, “Unless one of you offed your friend, you got no worries.” Both men scanned the young faces; not a single tick. “So help us out — which of you guys saw the Who with Willie?”
More silence.
“At least help Willie’s family,” Mallory tried. “You leave with him? See who followed him?”
Still nothing.
Gunner sneered. “Friends, my ass. These sorry little pricks wouldn’t know loyalty if it walked up and kicked in their teeth. Let’s get a warrant, haul all their asses in.”
The detectives were a good ten paces away before Ronnie called out, “We were pissed that he threw it. I called him an asshole. He got pissed back, said we were the assholes, and then took off. We were like, ‘Fuck that noise, let him go.’”
Mallory decided to gamble. “Did Willie write a lot, Ronnie?”
A few laughed. The big kid didn’t. “The name’s Ron. And no, he never wrote nothing. That’s gay.”
Now Mallory gave them silence.
Ron said, “But I saw this other guy scribbling away on index cards, like he had to do a report or something.”
Gunner took notes, Mallory kept talking. “Where did you see him, Ron?”
“Sitting right behind us, writing like his life depended on it. Seemed to be having a great time doing it, too.”
The detectives strolled back. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Fuck no. Old guy. Bent over his notes. How am I gonna get a good look? And why should I? Now if he had been a fine piece of ass…”
Gunner leaned in. “How old?”
“I don’t know, old.”
Mallory smiled. “Old like us?”
The big kid studied them a minute. “What are you, like 60? Nah. He was like, in his 40s, maybe.”
Gunner dropped his jaw. “I look 60? I will kick your—”
Mallory cut him off. “Hair color?”
“Blonde? Hard to tell under the baseball hat. Allman Brothers logo on front.”
“Can you describe his facial features?”
“About as wrinkly as you.”
“Thank you.”
“You asked, man.”
“Last question: Exactly where was he sitting?”
“I told you. Right behind us.”
“Behind which one of you?”
“Will.”
Gunner played for sarcasm. “He was directly behind Willie? You sure?”
“Damn sure.”
Mallory gave Ron his card. “Thanks. If you think of anything else, let us know. It could really help us catch whoever killed your friend.”
The detectives walked away. Ron called after them. “Hey.”
The detectives stopped, turned back toward him.
The big kid looked at the ground, then up at them. “Will. His name was Will.”
Mallory nodded. “Understood.”
***
Double overtime had been approved once top brass found out about the ind
ex card art, so the squad worked almost a full 24 hours, non-stop. The result: dead ends, frustration, and paperwork. None of them even considered leaving until the Lieu ordered them to go get some sleep.
“You bringing that lasagna in for me tomorrow?” Gunner asked as the partners shuffled toward their cars.
“Would Gina let me forget?”
Gunner grinned a tired little grin. “I love that woman.”
NINE
“You sleeping, Dad?” A small finger pulled open one formerly slumbering eyelid. A wild tousle of hair loomed into view, huge brown eyes and an impish smile glowing out from under the golden brown curls. “Wake up! You’re missing everything!” With that the sleep thief, using his father’s chest as a springboard, leapt from the bed and bounded out of the room.
Mallory blinked the tiny fingerprints out of his eye, then shuffled through his home, stretching a stiff back until he felt a small, relaxing crack along his spine. “More like Pop every day.”
Wandering through the living room, kitchen, and then into the family room, looking for family members, he absently adjusted a family portrait on the near wall, refusing to dwell on its similarity to the one hanging crooked in Bill Hill’s apartment. That’s The Job, this is your life, he chided himself.
Despite his best efforts, the family portrait was always askew. It was never one of the multi-frame pictures adorning the other walls, those of the early days in their Bronx apartment before moving up here to Rockland County, or of the kids as babies, or the one of him in dress blues carrying the boys in the St. Patty’s Day parade two years ago (the only evidence of The Job on any wall in the house). No, it was always this one, his favorite.
The portrait reminded him of that great summer, when everything was perfect. He’d just made detective, they’d recently bought this house, every day the kids were discovering something new. The portrait captured all that for him.
Mallory smiled, staring at it as he did most mornings. They were so perfect in this picture. Gina looked amazing, dark brown hair lustrous in the studio lights, her sensuous Sicilian complexion just a shade darker than his and the kids’. And then there were her eyes. Big, deep, brown. Frank got lost in those eyes, always. Tiny china doll lips curled into an open smile. On her hand shone a simple gold ring. His was visible as well. They still wore them proudly after all these years.
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