Taking Sheba home the back way.
I pulled over to a quiet spot the other side of the Brooklyn Aquarium. Exchanged the running shoes for a pair of boots, the sweatshirt for a turtleneck jersey, the raincoat for a leather jacket. Threw the blind man's props into the trunk.
The Plymouth purred past JFK Airport, its overtorqued engine muted, well within itself. Sheba slept peacefully on the back seat, profoundly uninterested in where we were going. Just doing her job.
Like me.
I turned off the Van Wyck Expressway onto Queens Boulevard. A short hop to the City–Wide Special Victims Bureau, sitting in the shadow of the House of Detention. I found a parking place, snapped Sheba's harness back on.
The entrance to the Bureau is blocked by a steel gate, guard's desk to one side, two–passenger elevator to the left of a narrow corridor. An Oriental woman was at the desk. Pretty face, calmly suspicious eyes.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Ms. Wolfe."
She handed me a sign–in sheet on a clipboard with a cheap ballpoint pen attached by a string, but her eyes never left my face. "Your name?" she asked. The way cops ask.
Sheba jumped up so her front paws were resting on the desk, her ears up and alert.
"Hi, Sheba!" the Oriental woman said. "I know I've got a treat for you around here someplace. Let me see…" She rummaged in her desk drawer, came out with a dog biscuit in her left hand. Tossed it at Sheba while she showed me the pistol in her right.
"Where did you get our dog?" she asked, still calm, much colder.
I moved my hands away from my body. "Ask Wolfe," I told her.
She must have kicked some button under the desk. Wolfe came around the corner, a cigarette in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other.
"What is it, Fan?" She spotted me. "Oh, here you are. Right on time."
Sheba bounded over to her. Wolfe reached down, scratched behind the dog's ears. "Sheba, playroom! Go to the playroom." The dog trotted off.
"He's okay, Fan." Wolfe smiled. The Oriental woman inclined her head about an inch, put the gun away.
I followed Wolfe back into her office. It looked like it always does: paper all over the place, walls covered with charts and graphs, a computer terminal blinking in one corner. And a white orchid floating in a brandy snifter.
"Where's the beast?" I asked, looking into the corners.
"Bruiser? He's somewhere with Bruno. Everything work out?"
I sat down across from her, lit a smoke of my own. "He brought a kid with him this time. Left him there. When I took off, McGowan's boys were hitting the back door."
She nodded, picked up a phone, pushed a button. A doll–faced young redhead with a pugnacious jaw walked in fast, her spike heels tapping on the hard floor.
"The Kent case, you got the warrants ready?" Wolfe asked her.
"All set," the redhead replied, confident.
"He delivered a kid this afternoon."
"We'll pull him in tonight."
I shook my head slightly. Wolfe caught it, looked up at the redhead. "The warrants…you have tap and search?"
"Mail cover too," the redhead said. "The Task Force is on it."
She meant the FBI Pedophile Task Force. They're right down the road from City–Wide. Must be the freak was networked way past the storefront in Times Square—the one thing baby–rapers have in common is enough to link them all over the damn earth.
"Take him tomorrow," Wolfe said, watching my face. I nodded agreement. "At work," she continued. "But start the tap tonight. If he gets a call from the Times Square people, we'll have them hooked in. Execute the search tomorrow night."
"What if he runs tonight?"
"Then grab him. But don't do it unless there's hard evidence that he's fleeing the jurisdiction, you understand?"
"Sure."
The redhead walked out fast, covering ground, her pleated skirt flying around her knees.
Wolfe dragged on her cigarette. "That's the best I can do," she said.
"It's okay. Good enough. I don't think they'll call him…degenerates don't work like that. No loyalty."
"A lower class of criminal." She smiled. A lovely, elegant face, framed by glossy dark hair shot through with two wings of white.
Wolfe knew what I was. What I did.
"Sheba was good?" she asked.
"Perfect."
"She's perfect here too. Calms the kids down like no psychiatrist ever could."
"Where'd you get her?"
"You know what happens to Seeing Eye dogs? After they work about ten years, they retire them." A soft sneer in her voice. "So their owner won't have to deal with an older dog. You know, they slow up, they get sick easily…like that."
"Where do they go?"
"Into cages. That's where I found Sheba. Can you imagine what it must be like…to work all your life, be so loyal and true…and end up in a cage?"
"Just the last part."
She nodded.
A tall, slender woman came in, sat on the edge of Wolfe's desk, crossed her long legs. An ankle bracelet gleamed. She had a Cleopatra face, long, dark nails. Kept her eyes on me as she talked to Wolfe over her shoulder. "We can't use the shield on Mary Beth. The judge ruled she wasn't a vulnerable witness."
"What does Lily say?" Lily runs SAFE, a treatment center for abused kids, works as a consultant to Wolfe's crew. I've known her forever.
"It'll be close," the tall woman said. "You'll take a look?"
"Yeah." She turned to me. "Want to see?"
"Okay," I told Wolfe. Her beautiful pal acted like I was furniture.
We walked down the hall to the playroom, stood in the doorway. Lily was talking to a little girl. The child had pale white skin, lank blonde hair, thick glasses. She was listening intently to Lily when she looked up, spotted me. Her expression didn't change.
Sheba was standing next to the little girl. I moved a bit too close and she growled, taking a step forward. Our relationship was over.
An angry–looking man in a double–breasted silk suit shouldered his way past me into the room. He had longish dark hair, a thick neck, slight Mediterranean cast to his features.
"You heard?" he asked Wolfe.
"I heard. It's your case?"
"No, it's not my goddamned case. But I'm gonna be there. He wants to watch Mary Beth, okay, we'll see how he likes me watching him."
"Rocco…" A warning tone in her voice.
"I know, I know. But…"
Wolfe turned to Lily. "How're we doing?"
"We're doing just fine. Aren't we, Mary Beth?"
The little girl's "yes" was a whisper.
I knew what was going on. The judge had ruled the little girl would have to face the perpetrator in court, not testify over closed–circuit TV like they'd wanted. And she was scared. He'd watch her, his eyes warning her, reminding her. Maybe he'd lick his lips, make a little gesture that only she knew. Maybe she'd go mute from terror. Wouldn't act like a kid on TV. A jury of citizen–hypocrites would talk about how normal the defendant looked. And another child molester would be acquitted. Her little face turned slowly, watching everyone in the room.
I stepped back against the wall, feeling her terror radiate—I've been tuned to that station all my life.
I touched Wolfe's hand. Lightly. "Could I try something?" I asked.
"What?"
"She doesn't want to see him, right?"
Wolfe nodded. We all knew who "him" was. There's always a "him" in Mary Beth's kind of nightmares. Or a "her." Sometimes "them." Never a stranger.
Rocco pushed in between us, his nose inches from my face, hoping I'd take offense. "Who're you?"
"This is a private investigator, Rocco," Wolfe told him. "He's worked with me before."
"Private investigators work for whoever pays them."
"Rocco, come over here a minute." Lily's voice.
Lily took him over into a corner. The little girl patted Sheba, watching.
The tall woman stepped n
ext to me, pinning me between her and Wolfe. Listening.
"It doesn't matter what he can see, right?" I asked. "It's what she can see.
"Right."
"What's the distance from the witness chair to the defense table?"
"I'm not sure," Wolfe said, looking past me to the tall woman. "You know, Lola?"
"I'll find out," she said, making some gesture at Rocco. "Wait in my office," Wolfe told me.
8
A chesty thug stepped across Wolfe's threshold. He looked half my height and twice my width, straps from a shoulder holster over his arms. And an annoyed–looking Rottweiler on a heavy chain in his hand.
"I remember you," he said. Some office Wolfe had: the women looked like fashion models, the men looked like a continuing criminal enterprise.
The Rottweiler snarled his acknowledgment—he remembered me too.
"I'm waiting for Wolfe."
"She let you in?"
"Yeah."
"Bruiser, stay!" he snapped at the dog, leaving me alone.
The Rottweiler watched me, praying I'd try to leave.
9
I was on my third smoke when Wolfe and Lola came back. Wolfe smacked the Rottweiler on top of his broad head. "Bruiser, place!"
The thickly muscled beast walked grudgingly over to a far corner, lay down on a slab of carpet. Pinned me with his eyes.
"He gets along with Sheba?" I asked her.
"Not really. They don't mix much. She has her space, Bruiser has his. Sheba, she's the whole Bureau's dog. Even sleeps here. But Bruiser's mine. Aren't you, Bruisey?"
The Rottweiler made a noise between a yawn and a growl.
"The distance between the witness chair and the defense table is about thirty feet, depending on the line of sight," she said. "Why'd you want to know?"
"I got an idea…something that might work."
Wolfe flashed her trademark smile—the one that made defense attorneys think about switching to real estate work. "And all you need is the defendant's address, right?"
"You misjudge me," I said, trying for an injured tone. "It's nothing like that."
"What do you need?"
"How about a look at the courtroom?"
Wolfe looked across her desk. Lola nodded. "It's after hours," she said.
10
We moved through the marble corridors in a loose diamond–shaped cluster: the thug taking the point, holding Bruiser on his leash. Me to the right, Lily beside me. Wolfe and Lola to the left, Rocco bringing up the rear.
In the center of the diamond, Mary Beth.
Courtroom K–2 was one floor up from the DA's basement. Empty.
Lily escorted Mary Beth to the witness chair. Lola took her place at the prosecutor's table. I sat in the defendant's spot, Rocco next to me. Wolfe stood by the jury box, one hand on the railing. The thug stayed by the door with Bruiser.
"It's your show," Wolfe said.
I took a breath, pulling up the calm, centering…so my voice would carry without cutting.
"Hi, Mary Beth," I called out. "Can you hear me?"
She nodded her head. If she said anything, I couldn't catch it.
"Let's play a game, okay?"
Nothing.
"Okay, Mary Beth? Come on, it'll be fun."
Lily leaned over and whispered something to her. The little girl giggled.
Lily nodded at me. I took a roll of bills out of my pocket, handed some singles to Rocco. He took them without a word, going along.
"Now, Mary Beth, my friend Rocco is going to hold something up. If you can guess what it is, you can have it, okay?"
"Okay." Soft, but audible.
"Don't hold up the whole fucking roll," I whispered to him. "One at a time."
He held up a dollar bill.
Mary Beth said something I couldn't hear.
"What was that, baby?" I called out to her.
"Money."
"That's right. You win."
"And you lose," Rocco said, jumping to his feet, walking over to the girl, handing her the cash. Making a production out of it, like a game–show host. Faint trace of a smile on the child's face.
"This is too easy, huh? Okay, Rocco, you stay there. Let's try something harder. Mary Beth, tell me how many fingers I'm holding up and you win again, okay?"
She nodded.
I held up three fingers.
"Three." A little girl's voice, faint.
Rocco bowed deeply, presented her with another dollar.
I tried again.
"One." Her voice stronger now, hint of a giggle underneath.
"Damn! You're good at this, Mary Beth. One more time, okay?"
"Okay." This time, I didn't have to strain to hear her answer. None of us did.
I tried two fingers. She was right on the money. Rocco made the delivery, happy to be spending my cash.
I took a breath. "Mary Beth, take off your glasses, okay? Let's try it that way.
She whispered something to Lily. I saw a grin spill across Wolfe's face and instantly disappear. The glasses came off.
I held up two fingers again.
"I can't see," the child said, her voice clear and firm.
"Try again," I said, holding my hand high above my head.
"I can't see anything."
Wolfe stepped away from the jury box. Walked around until she stood behind me. "Can you see me, honey?" she called.
"No. It's all a blur."
"Then you won't be able to see him either, Mary Beth. You won't have to see him, baby!"
The little girl's smile lit up the room.
11
Back in Wolfe's office, waiting for her to come back. Rocco waited with me, suspiciously patient.
"That was a slick trick, man," he finally said. "Where'd you learn stuff like that?"
"From them."
"Who?"
"The freaks. Child molesters, rapists, pain players…like that."
"You studied them."
"Up close," I said, giving him my eyes.
Wolfe walked in with Lola, another man next to her. Slim, handsome Spanish guy. Wolfe signaled to Rocco to take off. He acted like he didn't see the gesture—kept his eyes on me. "What's your name, man?"
"Juan Rodriguez."
The Spanish guy laughed. "So where's your cross, homeboy?" he asked me.
I held my hands out, showing him the backs were clean, no tattoos.
Rocco looked over at the Spanish guy. "What is this?"
"This cholo is fucking with us, bro'. He was a Mexican, he'd be a pachuco."
Wolfe sat down behind her desk, in command. Lit a cigarette, motioning for everyone to sit down.
"These are my people," she said to me. "I trust them, you understand?"
I nodded, waiting.
"I'm not going to be here forever. Things change, I want them to stay the same, you following me?"
I nodded again. No DA's office is free of politics. Wolfe had made a career of mashing rapists and molesters but she wasn't connected. So she wasn't protected. If she had to go someday, her crew would carry it on. The boss couldn't fire the whole lot of them.
"In or out?" she asked me.
"Do it," I told her.
She dragged on her cigarette. "Mr. Burke," she said, tilting her head in my direction, then toward each member of her crew, "this is Lola, my deputy [Cleopatra with the ankle bracelet], Amanda [the redhead], and Floyd [the Spanish guy]. Rocco's just come with us, a transfer from the Rackets Bureau. You've already met Bruno—he'll be back soon. The Spanish guy nodded in my direction—the others just waited.
The Rottweiler made a noise.
"And Bruiser." She laughed. Nobody else did.
"Mr. Burke has worked with this office in the past. Before some of you came." Looking at Rocco.
He snapped at the bait. "When?"
"Bonnie Browne," Wolfe answered, combing back her thick mane of dark hair with one hand, posture challenging.
I'd been looking for a photograph then. A picture
of a little kid. He wanted his soul back. The photo was in a luxurious house in Wolfe's territory, the headquarters of a kiddie–porn ring run by a husband–and–wife team. Wolfe wanted the team—I wanted the picture. Her surveillance crew was on the job the night I went inside. When I left, there was a fire. They found the husband at the bottom of the stairs, his neck broken. The wife was lying on her bed upstairs, still dazed from the ether I'd rubbed into her evil face. The old bitch lived, and she'd ratted out a dozen others. A big case.
Rocco nodded his head. "That was you?" he asked me.
"Mr. Burke assisted in the investigation," Wolfe said, cutting him off. "He has a…limited relationship with this office. We understand each other."
Rocco wouldn't let it go. "You're a PI?"
"I'm just a working man. Once in a while, like Ms. Wolfe said, our paths cross. That's all there is."
Floyd's eyes found me through the cigarette smoke. "Burke. I heard about you."
"Did you?"
A faint smile played across his mouth. He bowed his head slightly in my direction.
I got up to go. "I'll fill them in," Wolfe said.
12
Balanced. Centered, back to myself. Back from the sweet illusion of family I left in Indiana. No more part of Virgil's family than I was blind.
Illusions can make you jump to conclusions. Like off a bridge.
I have no home. I pitch my tent on rocky ground, a nomad, never planting a crop. I live by poaching. Stinging, scamming, stealing. Always ready to move along when the herd thins out.
I walk the line, but I draw my own. Hit and run. I've been a ground–feeder ever since I got out of prison the last time. A small–stakes gambler in crooked games.
No more hijacking, no more gunfighting. The scores are richer in the penthouse, but it's safer in the basement.
That's what I want—to be safe. When I was younger, I waded in, throwing hooks with both hands, looking for that one shot that would take out the other guy. TKO in the first round. I thought that would give me strength, then. Keep me safe.
But it was me who kept going down. No more. Now all I want is to go the distance, be standing at the end.
Standing up.
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