by Steven Henry
“Would it be possible to examine security footage?” she asked. “Just for confirmation purposes?”
“We would be happy to accommodate a court order...” he began.
Erin nodded. “Yes, I know,” she said. “And I’ll be happy to provide one, if necessary. But surely we can streamline the process? If I could just see the tape from the thirty-first, at eleven twenty-five in the morning, that’s all I’d need. Then I’d be out of the way, and there’d be no documentation suggesting there might be any shortfall in your bank’s patron-identification procedures.” She gave him her best negotiator’s smile. For the second time that day, she pictured Carlyle in her head, nodding approval. It was exactly the way he’d have handled something like this.
“Ma’am, I can assure you, we take the security of our customers’ accounts extremely seriously,” he said, and Erin was satisfied to see him getting a little flustered.
“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” she said, still smiling pleasantly. “This is just a formality, really. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is.”
Five minutes later, she was in the security station, watching a tape of the bank from New Year’s Eve. The security guard fast-forwarded to eleven twenty and let the tape run. Erin leaned in close. Security-camera footage had come a long way since its early days, but it still tended to be grainy and jumpy, hard to watch. The bank had four active counters that day, and she didn’t know at which one the withdrawal had happened.
She didn’t see Ronald Whitaker in the line. The minute of the transaction came. People were at each of the counters, none of them resembling the magician.
“Pause it,” she said.
The security man obediently froze the frame.
Of the four possible people, one was an overweight, middle-aged woman, two looked like businessmen, and the fourth was a slender, stylishly-dressed woman. The businessmen were dressed in generic suits. One had a mustache and goatee, the other was clean-shaven.
The goatee caught Erin’s eye. Facial hair was the thing a witness was most likely to remember about a face. She looked closer. The face looked familiar, but she couldn’t say exactly how. It looked like Whitaker, but smaller, thinner. She tried to picture it without the beard and shook her head.
“Rewind a minute,” she said. “Then play it again.”
She watched the customers approach the counter a second time. This time, she noticed something she’d missed before. The bearded patron let the young woman go first, motioning her with a courteous wave of his hand.
“How long do you retain your footage?” she asked.
“Three months,” the man replied.
“Good,” she said. “Hang onto it.” She was sure the guy in the goatee was the right one. He’d used the woman as a visual distraction. His teller was young and male, and Erin could see the bank employee’s eyes follow the attractive woman. The whole thing felt carefully laid out to minimize the chances anyone would pay attention to the bearded man’s features.
That didn’t do her much good, unless it helped ID the mystery customer. Erin had hoped to find some answers at the bank, but all she had was another question to take back to the precinct with her.
Vic and Webb got back in the midafternoon. They didn’t have anything new.
“I did learn one thing,” Vic announced.
“What’s that?” Erin asked.
“Whitaker’s lawyer is a scumbag.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Xavier Morris, Attorney at Law. I ran into him a couple times before. He’s an ambulance-chaser, works for a lot of lowlifes. When I was up in the Bronx, a few drug dealers lawyered up with him. Every time I see that weasel, I want to pop him one right in the teeth.”
“Everyone’s entitled to legal counsel,” Webb reminded him.
“I know,” Vic said. “But why’s it gotta be him? Even two-time losers deserve better defense. I’d rather take my chances with a public defender. At least they’ve got some principles.”
“I guess Whitaker doesn’t have a personal lawyer around here,” Erin said. “I suppose he didn’t say much, with an experienced criminal defense attorney on his elbow?”
“‘My client has no comment,’” Webb quoted dryly. “I’m guessing he’s worried about a civil suit. Negligence, poor safety standards, something like that.”
“I bet the girl’s parents sue him,” Vic said. “If he’s smart, he’ll settle out of court. I mean, he tied her to a power saw, for God’s sake.”
“And she let him,” Webb said. “She signed all sorts of personal-injury waivers.”
“Lawyers,” Vic muttered. But he did seem to be in a marginally better mood in spite of himself. Getting out of the office had done him good.
Erin left work that evening feeling like she was close to something, but not quite there. It was a maddening feeling, like trying to find a missing set of car keys. She just had too much static, too many distractions. Once she could calm down and think clearly, she figured, it would come to her.
Her parking garage had replaced the ceiling lights, but Erin took no chances. She took a second to check the corners, looking for parked cars with people waiting inside. She popped the release on Rolf’s compartment before getting out of the car, and had a hand hovering by her sidearm when she climbed out.
Nothing happened, of course. It never did when she was expecting it. Shaking her head wearily, she left the garage and opened the door to her apartment’s lobby.
“Evening, love.”
Erin just about jumped out of her skin. She had the Glock in her hand and halfway up before she registered the voice, and its familiar accent. Rolf, picking up on her reaction, lunged forward with a snarl.
“Rolf! Bleib!” she snapped. He obediently stopped short.
James Corcoran, leaning calmly against the lobby wall, smiled lazily. He gave no sign of alarm at the fact that she’d nearly put a hole in him, or that a German Shepherd had nearly torn him up. “Rough day at the office, I take it?”
Chapter 15
“Corky.” The word was almost a growl.
“The very same,” he said cheerfully. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s perishing cold outside, and downright demeaning to be left standing on the doorstep.”
“Depends,” Erin said. “What do you want?”
“Just a word, a moment of your time, and perhaps a nip of your excellent Scotch.”
“What do I get out of it?”
He grinned. “The pleasure of my company.”
“Did Carlyle send you?”
He gave her a wounded look. “I’m here on my own initiative, love. You’ve grown terribly suspicious. I suspect it’s the influence of dealing with so many desperate criminals.”
She didn’t return the smile. “Look, Corky, you’re right. It’s been a long day.”
“Then the sooner we talk, the sooner I’ll be out of your way. I’ll be so quick, you’ll scarcely know I was inside.”
“That line work well with most girls?”
He laughed. “Not quite what I meant, love.”
She did crack a smile then. It was so hard to stay angry at Corky. “Okay, come on up. Just for a few minutes. And I’m not offering anything else.”
“Perish the thought,” he said. “I never ask a lass for anything she’s not wanting to give.”
She did pour him a glass of Glen D, cracking open the new bottle she’d gotten from the Corner. After all, she needed a drink, and there was no call to be rude. Corky sprawled on Erin’s love seat, throwing an arm over its back. Erin sat down in her armchair. Rolf kept a sharp eye on Corky. The K-9’s hackles were still slightly raised. He hadn’t forgotten that Erin was upset, and wanted Corky to know someone was watching him.
Corky took a sip of whiskey and licked his lips ap¬pre¬cia-tive¬ly. “Ah, that’s lovely. Thank you, Erin. You’re a right lifesaver. The cold had gone right to my bones.”
“How’ve you been?” Erin asked. She hadn’t talked to
him in a couple of months.
“As you see me. Still living the good life.” He took another drink. “I’ve my health, my high spirits, and the gifts the good Lord gave me.”
“How’s business?”
He smiled knowingly. “No complaints.”
Corky had good connections with the Teamsters’ Union. He was probably involved with about a fair amount of the smuggling around Manhattan, and both of them knew it.
“So,” Erin said. “You wanted a word. What’s the word?”
Corky’s smile faded. He leaned forward and set his glass on the coffee table. “I want to talk about Carlyle.”
“You said he didn’t send you,” Erin said sharply.
“He didn’t, and he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“He will,” she said. “He’s got one of his guys following me around.”
“You’ve met Ian, then,” Corky said. “He’s a good lad, though a bit serious-minded for my taste. I hope he’s not been giving trouble.”
“I think he saved me getting my ass kicked,” she said.
“That’s grand,” he said, giving the body part in question a quick but appreciative glance. “And I’m pleased to hear it. But I’m not wanting to talk about him. It’s Carlyle, specifically. Have you any idea how the lad feels about you?”
Erin rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You’re talking to me about his feelings?”
“Aye.” He did look about as serious as she’d ever seen, and she’d seen him hold a bomb’s detonator switch open with his fingertips.
“How much do you know?” she demanded.
“I know he’s mad about you,” Corky said simply.
“That’s what he’s told you, huh?”
“He’s not said a word about it,” Corky said. “But remember, I’ve known the lad all my life. As you know, I’ve a habit of chasing the lasses. He doesn’t. Oh, I’ve known him to fool about, once or twice, but he doesn’t go into relationships lightly.”
“Carlyle and I do not have a relationship,” she said angrily. “Why does everyone think we do?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Let me ask you something, Erin. If everyone a lad knows tells him he has a drinking problem, but the lad himself says he doesn’t, whose word ought we to believe?”
Erin, rendered momentarily speechless with outrage, just glared at him.
Corky, impervious to her glare, picked up his glass and downed the rest of his drink. “I just meant to say, if everyone thinks you’ve a relationship, perhaps you do, whether it’s something you’re prepared to admit or not. I’ve seen my mate, Erin. He’s suffering, love. He’s downright miserable, pining away. If he were the sort, he’d be writing sad poems and drinking himself to an early grave.”
“Okay,” Erin said. “So what?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Our previous history’s no secret, love. I’ll not deny I was a bit hurt when you turned me down, but not surprised.”
“You’re a gangster,” she said. “I’m a cop.”
“Aye, natural enemies,” he said. “Like the Catholics and Protestants in the old country. The orange and the green. What you need to understand is, Carlyle isn’t like me.”
“Meaning what?”
“My mum didn’t talk about my da much,” Corky said. “Bastard ran off when I was just a wee lad, and I never saw him again. But when she did talk, it was always when I’d done something particularly naughty. She’d say, ‘There never was a Corcoran who amounted to anything.’ And she was right. Criminals, drunkards, layabouts, the whole sorry lot of us.”
Erin watched him and waited. This wasn’t what she’d expected him to say.
“I’m a fine lad to share a drink with,” he said. “I can show a lass a good time. I know some good jokes, and I’ll never betray a friend. But that’s about the sum of my good qualities. I’m not the lad you take home to meet your ma.”
“And Carlyle is?”
“He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” Corky said. “I’m saying that if he loves you, he’ll stand by you, no matter what. He’d have died himself, ten times over, to save poor Rose’s life, and I’ve a feeling he’d do the same for you.”
He stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Erin, and for hearing me out.” He extended his hand. Not knowing quite what to do, she took it. He held on just a moment longer than etiquette suggested. “Think it over, love. Even natural enemies can sometimes find common ground.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He smiled again. “That’s grand. I’ll see myself out, love. You needn’t trouble. And I’ll look to see you again, one way or another.”
Then he was gone. And Erin realized that her mind wasn’t any clearer. If anything, it was much cloudier than before.
Erin woke up the following morning thinking about the theater. She’d never been a big fan of the stage. Her hardheaded, practical father had passed down his worldview to her. Now she was trying to see into a world built on deception, on pretending to be someone else.
It wasn’t all that different from dealing with the criminal underworld, really. She remembered her dad telling her about the old-school Irishmen who’d run organized crime in New York until the Italians had taken over. In particular, Owney Madden, onetime murderer and original owner of the famous Cotton Club, had been friends with the actor Jimmy Cagney. Cagney had modeled his portrayal of gangsters on his buddy. Other gangsters, in turn, had tried to look and act like Cagney. Life imitating art imitating life.
While she took Rolf for their morning run, she kept thinking. Someone in the case was pretending to be something they weren’t. Maybe all of them were. Who had been that face in the security camera? It wasn’t Louis Miller. He was taller than the goateed man. It wasn’t Whitaker himself, though it looked a little like him. If it weren’t for the beard, Erin thought, the face would’ve looked almost feminine.
She abruptly stopped running. Rolf, taken by surprise, took three more strides. Then he realized his partner wasn’t with him anymore. He made a tight turn and bounded up on his hind paws, tongue hanging out. They weren’t done with their run yet.
“It was a woman,” Erin told him. “Wearing a fake beard, dressed as a man. With a fake ID.”
Rolf panted and wagged his tail agreeably.
“Okay, okay,” she said, starting to run again. Rolf fell in step with her. But she was already thinking ahead.
Chapter 16
“Kathy Grimes,” Erin said, hurrying into the office.
“I’ve heard of her,” Vic said. “Isn’t she dead, or something?” He was at his desk with a 32-ounce cup of Mountain Dew and a couple of cold Pop Tarts.
“Where’s the boss?”
“Dunno. Not in yet.” Vic looked up. “You’ve got something. I can tell.”
Erin spun her chair around and sat down. “What’s the count on the cash we got from Kathy’s hotel room? No, wait, don’t tell me. Thirty large, right?”
Vic nodded. “Close enough. This have anything to do with the bank you went to yesterday?”
“Everything,” she said. “Kathy was swiping cash from her boss, about ten grand at a time. She dressed up like a guy, put on a fake beard and mustache, and flashed a fake ID at the bank.”
“We didn’t find a fake ID in her room,” Vic pointed out. “Or a beard.”
“They worked at a theater,” she said. “They’ve got costumes and dressing rooms.”
Vic stood up. “You know what you’re looking for?”
“I think so.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
“Before Webb gets here?”
“Screw him,” Vic said. “We’ll leave him a note. C’mon.”
They already had a warrant for the theater. The building was still locked down, to the irritation of its management. New York commercial real estate that wasn’t open for business was a big, gaping wound that bled thousands of dollars in lost revenue. Erin hoped their Commercial Crime Insurance policy was paid up to date.
Vic, Erin, and R
olf went in the back with a passkey the theater had provided. They found themselves in the dark backstage corridors. The theater was quiet and deserted.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Vic muttered.
“Probably because a girl got sawed in half out front,” Erin said.
“No, theaters are just plain spooky,” he said. “This is some Phantom of the Opera shit right here.”
“Phantom of the Opera,” she repeated in a flat voice.
“Hey, I’m just saying, if some guy with acid burns on his face turns up singing, I told you so.”
Erin rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t take you for an opera fan.”
“I’m not. I used to watch late-night horror movies.”
“Whatever.” Erin had been looking for a light switch. She found it and flicked it on. The dark hallway was instantly transformed into a plain, ordinary concrete-floored corridor, enlivened by posters of old stage shows. The detectives found Kathy’s dressing room easily enough, just a short distance from the stage.
Vic peeled off a pair of disposable gloves from a roll in his back pocket. Erin followed suit. Vic tried the doorknob.
“Unlocked,” he said. “Did CSU do this room?”
“I don’t think so,” Erin said. “This theater’s big. They didn’t go over the whole place. Just the stage, the front seats, and the backstage area.”
Vic opened the door. They entered a small ladies’ dressing room, with mirror, lights, and several eye-catching costumes.
He held up a spangly corset with matching bottom. “You think you could bring this off?”
“In your lonely dreams,” Erin said. She’d worn swimsuits with more coverage.
Vic grinned. “Okay, what’d she wear to the bank?”
Erin looked at the various outfits. They seemed a little jumbled around. “I think someone’s been in here,” she said.
“Not our victim?”
“Not a chance,” Erin said. “These fabrics are crumpled. Some of them are hung improperly. You gotta be careful with silk. Look, there’s a garment bag that’s just scrunched up, not covering this dress.”