"Now she knows the string's played out. The old cfime's come back to haunt."
"Think Clury'll show?" Janek shrugged. "Sue asked me the same thing.
We'll have to wait and see."
But his mind wasn't on Clury anymore. He could think only of Gelsey: her misery as she endured four or five years in a woman's prison and her state when she emerged.
The next morning Ray called from Houston.
"Evidence tests positive. Cody and Martinez just picked Collizzi up.
They're tanking him. They'll start sweating im this afternoon. Charge is capital murder. What do you want me to do?"
"You've done all you can," Janek said. "Now it's up to the El Paso police. Come home."
Sue called at eleven A.m. The night before, Janet Clury had gone straight home from the mall. In the morning, when she left for work, she looked calm, as if nothing had happened.
"Her call tracked back to an address in Crystal River, Florida, about a hundred fifty miles up the coast. The phone's listed to a Mr. Dan Dell.
I just called there to see what would happen. A lady answered.
Nice voice. She said: ' morning, Dan's Bait and Charter."
A Florida bait and charter! Every cop's retirement dream!
"Anyway, I was wondering-do you want me to go up there and check it out?"
Ten to one he's already left.
"Sure, take a look," Janek said. "But apply the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Nothing fancy." :'What do you consider fancy?" ' ' if I take a little picture of you, sir?" Or pretending you know something about fishing."
Sue laughed. "How about I swagger in real hutch and tell him me and my girlfriend are looking for a very private charter?"
Could work. Clury's been out nine years. Probably doesn't know we have out-of-the-closet gay detectives now.
"Sure, try that," Janek said, "but don't forget to call in. Aaron'll be here. Ray's flying in from Texas. It's all coming together. A couple more days, we ought to have it wrapped."
He borrowed Aaron's car again, drove out to Newark. On his way he asked himself: Why am I doing this? What am I looking for?
She was painting when he arrived. They talked casually. He liked sitting on her couch, talking, watching her work, while her ceiling fan slowly stoked the air. He felt comfortable with her, as if he'd known her forever, as if there weren't anything he couldn't say.
She took a break to make some tea. After sipping in silence, she turned to him with an inquiring smile.
"What are we all about?" she asked softly.
"I've been wondering myself. What do you think?"
"The Mirror-obsessed Outlaw Artist and the Cop with the Searching Eyes.
Obviously we like each other. But why? We don't have much in common."
"Does that bother you?" She smiled. "You're very special to me. You know that."
"As you are to me."
"Still, it's strange, isn't it?"
"Strange and wonderful, I think."
"It is wonderful," she agreed. "Somehow we found each other. We didn't know we existed, but we were searching for each other anyway. Two lost souls, right?" She smiled to mock the cliche. "I feel so lucky. It's as if you've freed me. Now I can change, become the person I was meant to be." She paused. "The only thing I worry about is what I can give you in return." "Don't ever worry about that," he said. "You've given me a great deal… more than you can possibly know."
Driving back in the dark, he noticed a car following, one headlight slightly dimmer than the other. He realized he'd seen this same signature several times since he'd left Richmond Park.
Am I being followed? Is it Clury? Could he possibly move so fast?
After he emerged from the Holland Tunnel, he slowed, made sure the other car was still behind, then sped uptown, turned the corner, turned again onto empty Washington street, then quickly parked, cut his lights, pulled out his revolver and slid down in his seat.
A few seconds later the other car, a battered maroon Oldsmobile, drove by. As soon as it passed, he started up again and followed.
The other driver drove slowly. He's looking for me. Then Janek noticed him weaving. Maybe he's drunk. Maybe it isn't Clury after all.
Approaching a stoplight, Janek decided to make his move. When the other car halted, he pulled up right beside it and turned to look. Timmy Sheehan stared into his face.
Janek rolled down the window on his passenger side.
"Hi, partner! Lost?"
"Hey, partner! What're you doing out so late?"
"Pull over after the light. We'll talk about it," Janek said.
Timmy pulled over. Janek parked behind. The street was silent. There were no pedestrians. It was an area of old brick warehouses, deserted at night.
When he got out he heard the faint thud of rock music issuing from one of the unlicensed late-night basement clubs in Tribeca. Walking to Timmy's car, he felt like a traffic cop approaching a speeder he'd signaled to the curb.
He opened Timmy's car door. The interior smelled of gin. There were crumpled potato-chip bags and empty beer cans on the floor. He would have a ratty old car like that. Janek sat down in the passenger seat, shut the door.
"Why're you following me, partner?"
"Who set me up, Frank?"
Janek met his eyes. "Time's come to spill, Timmy. Why does Dakin think you're slime?"
Timmy stared at him, grinned secretively, feigned a yawn, then suddenly tried to hit him. The blow was awkward. Janek grasped hold of his fist, pushed him back behind the wheel.
"Want to punch out your old partner? What's the matter with you?"
"Fuck you, Frank!"
Timmy swung at him again, this time with more serious intent. Janek pulled back, but not far enough. Timmy's fist clipped his shoulder.
"Okay, that's enough… But Timmy didn't stop. He began to flail, his blows wild and ineffective. Janek caught them open-handed, but then his shoulder began to hurt and he grew annoyed.
He wants me to smack him. That's really what he wants.
Finally, Janek hit him back. The moment his fist flattened Timmy's lips, Timmy stopped swinging to wipe away the blood. Panting the aroma of cheap gin, he peered down at the stain on his handkerchief. Then he looked at Janek, hurt, surprised.
"You're bleeding now. That's what you wanted, isn't it? what'd you do, Timmy?" Janek spoke gently. "Better tell me. You'll feel better."
Timmy wiped his mouth again. "Maybe I took a few bucks. Who the hell cares?"
"How much? How many times?"
"One time. Maybe ten, fifteen K."
"Cut the '' crap. You know exactly how much you took."
"Around fifty," Timmy said. "More or less."
"Who from?"
"Drug dealer."
"When'd you do this?"
"Seven, eight years ago."
"The same dealer Dakin lined up. The one who swore you tried to hire him to kill Komfeld. What was his name?"
"Keniston."
"Right. So Keniston had it in for you. All Dakin had to do was skew his hatred a few degrees. And you spent all the money on booze, too, didn't you? You don't have a pot to piss in now except your pension."
Timmy nodded. Janek stared at him. "God, you're pathetic!"
Timmy shrugged. "Everyone can't be the Great Fucking Detective like you, Frank. Some of us are just slime, you know."
"That how you see yourself?"
"Maybe. What're you going to do now, partner? Turn me in?"
Timmy's eyes were glowing. A thin line of blood, running down his chin and the side of his neck, had stained the collar of his shirt.
He wants me to turn him in. He'll revel in it.
"I wouldn't bother," Janek said. "You're punishing yourself more than any prison could. Do yourself a favor, Timmy@go to AA, get your head straight before you get too hungry for your gun. Because that's where you're headed, my friend. Maybe you'll eat it in a service-station washroom or early one holiday morning when even the dogs a
re asleep. But you'll eat it. Sooner or later you will. You know it, too."
Janek opened the car door, was halfway out before Timmy answered.
"Would you care if I ate it, Frank?" He showed his secretive grin again.
"Would you mourn me?"
"Sure, I'd mourn you, Timmy. You were my partner. I haven't forgotten that."
He fled the car, and, when he was back in his own, took off fast.
Following the river uptown, he thought about police work and some of the strange people who did it: Kit, Dakin, Clury, Timmy. He thought about cops, how they lived and the awful ways their lives often turned.
Our music is so maudlin, he thought, like an oldfashioned amusement park on a crappy off night in autumn. The hurdy-gurdy grinding, the fun-house robots cackling. Cheap, tawdry, rinky-dink. God help us all.
Sue called in early from Crystal River. Mr. Dan Dell had not been at his bait shop when she stopped by. Mr. Dell, it seemed, had left town for parts unknown. But there was a picture of him on the shop wall, posing, like Hemingway, with a huge blue marlin hanging from a block and tackle. :'Does he look like Clury?" Janek asked.
"Maybe," Sue said. "Hard to tell."
"Describe him."
"Stocky, smaller than the fish, thick neck, thick brush mustache."
"What about his cheeks? Scarred?"
"I couldn't tell. The sun was full in his face."
"Eyes?"
"He was squinting."
Most likely Dell is Clury, but her description doesn't nail it.
"I think I got his prints," Sue said casually.
Janek smiled. Good girl! "How'd you manage that?"
"I spotted a pack of Marlboros beside the register. I asked the nice lady, who turned out to be the new Mrs. Dell-small, blond, a younger version of Janet-if it would be all right if I helped myself. '," she says, real nice, ''re Dan's. Might as well take the pack.
They'll just dry up." So I took it, dropped it dainty-like into my purse. Now I got it properly bagged and IDed. Want me to bring it home, Frank?"
"No, I want you to throw it in the sewer. Take it to the nearest locals, have them lift the prints, fax them to me, then stand by."
"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Janek, sir!"
The prints on the cigarette pack matched Clury's perfectly. After that it was classic follow-up. He made all the textbook moves:
He kept Sue in Florida to check on Dell. When the local DEA agent told her that, although there was no hard evidence, Dell was suspected of using his charter boat to pick up drugs dropped by runners into the Gulf, Janek suggested that the DEA begin proceedings to seize his property.
He sent Aaron back to work with Sue and the Crystal River cops. They set up a twenty-four-hour watch on Clury's boat, house and bait shop, got a court order to tap his phone and followed young Mrs. Clury whenever she went out.
He sent Ray over to the NYPD pension department to explain that Clury wasn't dead. The department immediately cut off Janet's checks, put liens on her accounts and property and filed charges against her for criminal fraud.
Janek personally went over to the bomb squad butter vault to inform Stoney that Clury was still alive..He made sure Stoney understood that it was his excellent work tracking the bomb signature that had made Janek think to call up Clury's file.
Stoney appreciated the compliment, but worried about the outcome. "Put a bomber in a corner," he said, "he's likely to throw a bomb."
"Killing isn't going to help him," Janek said. "He's got two choices: deal or run."
Stoney didn't agree. "Bombers are psychos. Once a bomber, always a bomber. And when one comes after you, he's not going to come with a gun."
It was Sunday afternoon when Clury called. Janek was at home, watching a Yankees game on TV. The caller didn't identify himself, but Janek knew who it was. Clury's voice was deep and harsh:
"There's a phone booth on your corner, Amsterdam and Eighty-seventh.
I'll be calling there in four minutes. Don't miss me." Click.
Janek pulled on a sweatshirt, slapped a cassette into his micro tape recorder, rang impatiently for his elevator, then took the stairs. Out on the street, he jogged to the corner. A teenager, possibly a drug messenger, was snarling into the phone.
Janek tapped him on the shoulder. "Pardon me, I'm expecting a call."
The boy turned, mouth curled with contempt. "Yeah? Hot shit! "
Janek flashed his shield. "Get lost, kid."
The boy dropped the receiver, took off down the avenue. Just as Janek replaced it, the phone rang.
"It's me," Clury said. "Put that tape recorder away. Otherwise I don't talk."
He's near. He can see me.
Janek obeyed.
"You're a clever cop, Janek. Gotta admire the way you put the scare into Janet. Your guy was behind her, right?"
"Something like that," Janek agreed.
"Well, it ain't worth shit, Detective, because you got nothing but a middle-aged cop who decided to drop out of the game. A cop who got worn down doing undercover work. So instead of quitting officially the way you're supposed to, he walked away."
"Some people might call that desertion."
"Would they? Big deal!"
"Anyway, I got a little more than that," Janek said.
"Pension fraud? I never took a cent. That's between Janet and the Department. Nothing to do with me."
"There's homicide."
"Whose are we talking about?"
"I count four: Edith Mendoza, the guy in your car, Gus Metaxas and Phyllis Komfeld."
Clury laughed. "Edith? No one's ever going to figure that one out.
Guy in my car? Who's he? Way I heard it, they found some body parts which got cremated nine years ago. Metaxas? He killed himself. No one can prove otherwise. Komfeld? You gotta be kidding. She was killed by a robber. You'll never tie her to me."
You don't know I've got Dakin in my pocket. "You blew up my car," Janek said.
"I didn't. I was. fishing off the Keys that night. I can prove it, too."
Yeah, you probably can.
"So, you got it all figured, don't you, Clury? Why'd you bother to call?"
"I want to work things out. Sure, I can disappear. But I don't want to see Janet hurt. My new wife either."
What a nice man!
"We'll have to meet and discuss it."
"No problem. Just you and me. No one else. I'll pick the time and place."
Go for it!
"Sorry, can't do that. You'll have to surrender at my office. Think it over. If you're interested, call me back. I'll be at home. No more phone booths. Think about this, too. The Department wants Mendoza closed. if you help me close it, maybe something can be worked out. But you'll have to surrender first." He waited a beat, then hung up.
He's watching, he reminded himself as he walked back to his building.
Move with confidence so he sees you know you've got him by the balls.
After two days of silence he wondered if he'd made a mistake. He thought: Maybe I went too far. Surrender is more than he can tolerate.
But he still didn't see how Clury could disappear again, since, this time, he'd be a wanted man. Also, he was nine years older. He had a nice life as Dan Dell in Crystal River. Could he walk away so easily from everything-wife, business, bank accounts? What were his choices?
At first Janek thought he had him boxed. Now, after two days, he wasn't sure.
Maybe, he thought, Stoney's right. Maybe Clury will throw a bomb. But Janek didn't see the point of that. He viewed Clury as an ice-cold killer, not a nut case. Everything he'd done, the way he'd set up Metaxas and murdered Komfeld, was amoral, logical and totally self-serving. Sol why now try to kill the COPS who were after him? He had to know that if he did that he'd only provoke the formation of a posse.
On the other hand, Janek reasoned, how could Clury walk away from his sweet life in Florida and his new, Young, pretty wife? His only reasonable choice was to surrender, with the hope that he could make s
ome kind of deal.
Clearly he wouldn't plead to a homicide count or anything that would earn him heavy time, but he might be willing to go in for a couple of years just to clean the slate. Yes, Clury's best bet was to help close the Mendoza case, which he might believe he could do without implicating himself. His biggest problem would be to explain who was in his Cadillac when it blew. If he was smart, and Janek believed he was, he would come up with a plausible explanation and some proof to back it up.
What he would not know, of course, was that Phyllis Komfeld had identified him years before to Dakin. Nor would he know that under the Dead Man Statutes, such @'hearsay" could be presented in court, and that Dakin, desperate to save his ass, would eagerly testify.
But there was another side to the thing. Suppose Mendoza had paid Clury to kill his wife? How much money could Clury have gotten? Fifty thousand? A hundred? Not nearly enough to run away on, not nearly enough to take himself to a new life. So, maybe what Clury had said was partly true: Perhaps he was, as he claimed, a burned-out cop who decided one day to walk.
Still, Janek knew, he hadn't walked without money. So, where had he gotten it, if not from Mendoza and Janet's widow's pension? Dakin had said that Cury was dirty, that he hadn't been dealing but had been a double agent. What if Clury had stolen from the group he'd penetrated?
Not the kind of chicken feed Timmy had taken off Keniston, but real money, the kind big-time drug dealers keep lying around-a million, maybe even two? Then his dropout walkout made some sense. And whatever he got to kill Mendoza would have been a little extra cream on top of all that milk.
Yeah, Janek decided, it must have been something like that. What he couldn't decide, however, was which of the two men was most evil: Howard Clury with his bombs and hands-on homicides, or Jake Mendoza with his money and hired killers.
When Clury finally did call early on Thursday, a few minutes after midnight, Janek was about to fall asleep. He groped for the phone beside his bed.
"Yeah?"
"It, s me." Clury's voice sounded less harsh than before. "I'm ready to meet."
Janek thought he heard a note of resignation, as if Clury had been chewing on his options and concluded that none of them was good.
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