Nightbird (30 page)

The call came at two minutes after one. Winters picked up on the first ring.

“You have the money?”

“Yes,” was all Winters said.

The male caller asked for Winters’s cell phone number, then said, “Drive to the corner of Central Park West and Ninety-fifth
Street and wait for my next call.” He asked Winters to repeat the location, told him to leave immediately, then hung up.

“Winters is being too brave,” Ryan said, fishing his nephew’s blazer out of the closet. “He should be more nervous. Worried
that we might lose him in traffic. Worried about something.”

Gregory helped Ryan on with his jacket. Ryan slipped his left arm into the sleeve. His right arm stayed inside the jacket,
which Gregory laid over the sling.

“It’s too easy,” Ryan said. “It’s a bad omen.”

Gregory began to sneeze. Hotel doors opened and closed, and the sound of heavy footsteps hurried down the hallway. The weighty
bump of cop gear
thunk
ed against walls, the squeak of leather shifting on a moving hip.

“You shouldn’t think so much, pally,” Gregory said. “It takes all the fun out of being a cop.”

D
anny Eumont walked out on Joe Gregory and drove straight to the Bronx. For two hours, he scoured the area around Walton Avenue
and East Burnside until he found a battered Chevy Nova with Florida plates. It was a piece of the puzzle he hadn’t surrendered
to Gregory. Jake Bugel had told him that Victor Nuñez and Pinto Timoshenko sometimes stayed with his cousin, who still lived
in this “hellhole.” Danny knew they hadn’t returned to the Echo Place apartment. He figured Jake’s cousin was worth a shot.
He parked his Volvo on the next block and waited.

The Chinese-Spanish takeout on the corner handled a steady stream of customers. Danny locked his car doors. A man sold compact
music disks out of the trunk of a Lexus. Danny rolled up the windows, despite the heat. Luckily, he didn’t sweat for long.
At nine-thirty
P.M.
Victor Nuñez and Faye Boudreau came around the corner, Nuñez pushing an old bicycle, a blue duffel bag slung across his shoulder.
Faye slid behind the wheel of the Chevy. Nuñez tried to wedge the bike into the trunk, but the lid wouldn’t close on the handlebars,
so he tied it down with rope. Danny wondered where the Russian was.

As soon as Nuñez got in, Faye pulled away from the curb. She made the left on Jerome Avenue. Danny followed them down the
Major Deegan Expressway onto the Triborough Bridge. At the bridge toll, Danny was two cars behind the Nova. He prayed the
drivers in front of him had the correct change and no stupid questions. Faye handed her money to the toll collector. Danny
leaned out his window, trying to see if they’d take the Manhattan exit or go on to Queens. But the Nova cut immediately to
the left, its trunk lid bouncing. Fifty yards past the toll, it disappeared down the ramp to Randall’s Island.

Danny knew there was only one way to drive off the island: they had to come back his way. He cruised down the ramp onto the
broken and unmarked pavement. Very slowly, very carefully. The island was a spooky place, abandoned by cars and people. A
lost world between Manhattan and Queens, junky and overgrown. All roads seemed to lead to traffic circles that spun you around
to where you began. He spotted the Nova pulled up onto the grass near the high chain-link fence that surrounded the NYC Fire
Department’s Training Academy. Danny parked and snapped off his lights.

Victor Nuñez took the bike and the duffel bag out of the trunk. He slung the bag over his shoulder, said something to Faye,
then pedaled away. Danny scrunched down in the seat as Faye drove straight toward him. After she passed he sat up and followed
her off the island, to Queens. First to a liquor store on Ditmars Boulevard, then to this spot on Shore Boulevard. Directly
across the Hell Gate from Ward’s Island.

Danny wished he’d brought a cell phone. He should call his uncle, let him know that Nuñez was on the island. But he was already
committed. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Joe Gregory always said. Danny had already lied about Timoshenko’s Chevy Nova
and the fact that Victor Nuñez might be at Jake Bugel’s cousin’s apartment. But if he’d told Gregory everything, he still
would have been cut out. Police business, Gregory would have said. Danny couldn’t let that happen.

This wasn’t about closing a case to him, and it wasn’t even about writing a story. It was about a phrase his uncle always
used: “Do the right thing.” He made it sound so simple. The “right thing” in this case was to find justice for Gillian. If
the police weren’t going to do it, he was.

The rain had stopped as Danny got out of the olive and walked along Shore Boulevard. Just a light drizzle fell through the
lights of the Triborough Bridge far above him. He walked under the massive stone highway, traffic a low, steady roar.

He came up behind the Nova, on the passenger side. Faye was behind the wheel. She had her head back, eyes closed as if sleeping.
He knocked on the glass. Her reaction showed no hint of surprise. No fear. Between her legs was a pint of dark rum. And something
shiny, which she held in her hand. He was already in the car, sitting next to her, before he realized it was a gun.

P
erched fifty-five feet above the Harlem River, on the Manhattan side of the Ward’s Island footbridge, Victor Nuñez wrote Trey
Winters’s cell phone number on the palm of his hand. His first call had sent Winters to Central Park. It was a move designed
to confuse the police… if Winters had actually called them. It also gave him a few minutes to rest and think. Carbon monoxide
from traffic on the Harlem River Drive hung in the air like a grainy black cloud.

For almost two hours he’d worked on the bridge as rain fell. The rain had stopped, but the weather was still humid. His hands
had tightened up, but everything was in place, all checked and rechecked, just as his father had taught him. Victor had well
absorbed the Nuñez family’s methodical approach to safety.

The closing of the Ward’s Island footbridge had been a blessing for him. Not only did it create the element of surprise, one
that would confound any pursuer, but he was able to work without interruption. He’d attached a measured length of rope to
the raised portion of the bridge. His plan was to get the money from Winters at the barricade near the Manhattan entrance,
run up to the top, then swing underneath the raised portion, across to the other side.

In seconds he’d be on Ward’s Island, where he’d stashed a bike in the bushes. No one would see him swing across the open space.
Even if they did, he could ride around to the Hell Gate Channel in a matter of three minutes. If the cops were involved, they’d
certainly close the exit on the Triborough Bridge, which they’d assume was the only exit. Then they’d search the island for
him. But he’d be gone. He planned a swim, a short swim across Hell Gate Channel to Shore Boulevard in Queens.

Victor had dressed in loose black clothing, under which he’d worn a wet suit. He didn’t want to go into the water, because
he was having trouble breathing, his nose still swollen from Anthony Ryan’s hard head. His right shoulder ached from the blow
delivered by Faye. But he had no choice. He couldn’t take the chance on the police blocking the one exit. They’d never think
he’d swim the treacherous Hell Gate.

These cops with their flabby bellies would never believe a man could cover so much ground so quickly. In less than twelve
minutes he’d be across an island and two rivers, in another borough entirely. So much movement, so quickly, would create a
communications and logistical nightmare for the pursuing police. If Winters had notified them.

Alain Charnier would be proud. Victor’s plan was far more brilliant than
The French Connection
. In twelve minutes, while the cops were scratching their flaky bald heads, he’d be a rich man, driving south in a car no
one would be looking for.

He sat back against the barricade. And a formidable barrier it was. Like the one on the Ward’s Island side, it was built by
the city, designed to keep people away from the center of the bridge. Eight feet tall, it was constructed of heavy plywood
covered with thick sheet metal and ringed on the top and sides with looping barbed wire. It was an imposing challenge for
any street athlete who thought he could scale it or swing around it. The flabby police could never get around it; they’d have
to tear it down. Even if they did that, they couldn’t get across the open span over the river. They’d have to drive around,
which would eat up their precious time.

Victor took the portable drill from his duffel bag. He made a peephole in the plywood, so he could see whoever was coming
up the ramp but they couldn’t see him. He’d make his escape with only one cop, Anthony Ryan, ever getting a good look at him.
He began to stretch and go through the yoga exercises his father had taught him.

In five minutes he’d pick up the cell phone and make a second call to Winters. Ten minutes after that he’d make the last phone
call, until Winters appeared at his feet.

W
inters is driving too fast,” Ryan said. “What the hell’s his hurry?”

“Nerves,” Gregory said.

They rode up Central Park West in light rain, both partners keeping the sneeze count. They were the third backup tail team,
with two main functions: try to spot Nuñez and stay out of the way.

“Nuñez is going to take Winters into the park,” Gregory said, tallying sneeze number seven. “Not a bad strategy. Give him
an opportunity to scope out a tail. Probably figures he can lose us on foot in the woods. Eight hundred and forty acres to
get lost in, foliage is dense and heavy. Unlimited points of escape. The guy’s a trapeze artist, maybe he’ll swing through
the vines like Tarzan.”

“I thought you said we’d be drinking in Brady’s before the night’s over.”

“It ain’t over till last call, pally.”

As Ryan studied a city map with a flashlight, Gregory wondered aloud as to why they called them trapeze “artists.” Then he
sneezed for the eighth time.

“I think I’m allergic to your jacket,” he said.

Ryan sniffed at his nephew’s jacket. It smelled like wet wool and perfume. He felt through the pockets and came up with a
rolled piece of raw cotton and a phone number written on an America West napkin. Lainie Mossberg. It was sealed with a red
lipstick kiss.

They parked in the east crosswalk at Ninety-second Street, three full blocks below the action. Lights out, engine off. Totowa
Rose came on the air, her voice purring with late night implication. She calmly warned Winters not to walk as fast as he’d
driven, he’d lose his backup if he did. She announced that a second phone call had ordered Winters to take the money and stand
by the park wall. Rose gave the order to deploy pedestrian undercover into the park.

Major Case leaked people into the park, one by one. A jogger in a bright orange sweatsuit. A young couple holding hands. A
man in a beret walking a doddery old cocker spaniel. A few others they didn’t know, but who qualified as cop possibilities
only because it was one-thirty
A.M.
and this was Central Park.

“That guy in the beret always brings his dog on these things,” Gregory said. “Think he adds doggie treats to his expense sheet?”

Ryan picked up the binoculars and looked at Trey Winters, wondering what was taking Nuñez so long. Was he out there watching,
checking for police manpower?

“You figure Faye is out there with him?” Gregory said.

“If not here, somewhere waiting for him.”

“I don’t know whether I told you this before, but you’ve acted like an asshole on this case.”

“Now you know how I always feel,” Ryan said.

People spend most of their time and energy promoting and reinforcing their self-image. The self-image of Anthony Ryan, star
detective and family man, took a heavy hit. So who was he now? Was he playing a part in an old gangster movie, a guy in a
suit trying to change his identity? Or was he really the Invisible Man, and nothing was beneath the gauze?

“What did Leigh say when you talked to her?” Ryan asked.

“What they always say: ‘He could have called.’”

“She’s right.”

“No shit,” Gregory said. “Women are always right, I live by that motto. But she sounded relieved. And goddamn happy she gets
to spend one more night of wild passion with somebody named Bruno, the Italian stallion.”

Gregory checked his watch. He was enjoying himself, a big Irish smile on his face. Ryan wondered how long it would be before
he started singing.

“Ten minutes now,” Gregory said. “He’s biding his time.”

“Not anymore. Winters just answered the phone. Now he’s walking toward the car.”

Totowa Rose said that Winters was told to drive east through the park across the Ninety-seventh Street transverse road. She
ordered everyone to hold fast for a few minutes. The subject might be watching for a tail on the narrow park road. Maintain
your present position. Winters started his car quickly and made the turn into the park.

“There he goes again,” Ryan said. “Taking off fast. He did everything but leave rubber.”

Gregory started the Buick, made a squealing U-turn, and headed south, in the opposite direction.

“Must be that New Jersey accent,” Ryan said. “I thought Rose said hold your position.”

“I take no orders from Jerseyites,” Gregory said. “Besides, you’re right, pally. He took off too fast. Like he’s trying to
lose us. We’ll run parallel to him.”

Gregory made a hard left into the park at the Eighty-sixth Street transverse road. Ryan figured Winters’s car was even with
theirs, but on the other side of the reservoir. They might even be a little ahead with the speed Gregory was driving. In less
than a minute they were through the park, blinking in the glitter of Fifth Avenue.

Joe Gregory was the most instinctive tailman Ryan knew. He was vamping. Winging it. Flying through the red at Madison. Dodging
pedestrians, dodging raindrops. Ryan sat up straight. They’d become boy cops again, buzzed by the adrenaline of the chase
and the juice of defiance. Chug-a-lugging from the fountain of youth.