Sacrifice (2 page)

3

I
t was almost two o'clock before he showed. I recognized him easily by now. In his thirties, close–cropped brown hair, matching mustache, trimmed neat. Wearing a blue windbreaker, jeans, white basketball shoes. Youth worker from one of the Homeless Shelters. Last time he stuffed a dollar bill into my cup. I remember saying, "God bless you."

Watching his smile.

This time he wasn't alone. The kid with him was maybe eight years old. Skinny kid, wearing a brand–new sweatshirt with some cartoon character on the front, munching a hot dog. Having a great time. Probably spent a bunch of quarters in the video arcades first.

They turned into the electronics store a few doors in front of where I was standing—the same place he'd gone into the last time. When he'd come up behind me and put the money in my cup. The same place he always went.

He was inside almost an hour. When he came out, he was alone.

4

H
e walked past me. Stuffed another dollar in my cup. "May the Lord follow you always," I thanked him. He smiled his smile.

The Prof strolled up to me. A tiny black man, wearing a floor–length raincoat, scuffling along.

"You got him?" I asked.

"Slime can slide, but it can't hide."

"Call McGowan first," I told him, holding his eyes to be sure he got it. McGowan's a cop—he knows what I do, but kids are his beat, not hijackers. "Tell him the freak made a live delivery this time. Tell him to go in the back way—Max is there on the watch."

"I hear what you say—today's the day?"

"The bust will go down soon—they're ready, warrants and all. You find out where the freak goes, where he holes up. They'll take him tomorrow, at work. Then we take our piece out of his apartment. Just the cash—the cops can have the rest."

The Prof took off, disappearing into the crowd. The freak would never see him coming.

5

T
ime to go. I gently pulled on the harness and Sheba came to her feet. I folded the blanket, wrapped it around my neck, and let the dog pull me forward. I turned the corner, headed down the alley where Max would be waiting.

I spotted Debbie's owner lounging against the alley wall. Tall, slim brownskin man wearing a long black leather coat and a Zorro hat.

Stocky white kid next to him, heavily muscled in a red tank top. A pimp: he needed reinforcements to mug a blind man.

I plodded on ahead, oblivious to them, closing the gap.

The pimp pushed himself languidly off the wall to face me. The muscleman loomed up on the side.

"Hold up, man."

I stopped, pulling on the harness, squeezing the button on the handle that unsnapped the whole apparatus from the dog.

"Wha…?" Fear in my voice.

"Give up the money, man. No point in getting yourself all fucked up, right?"

"I don't have any money," I whined.

I saw the slap coming. Didn't move. Let it rock me to my knees, pulling the harness off as I fell.

"Sheba! Hit him!" I yelled, and the dog sprang forward, burying her wolf's teeth deep into the pimp's thigh. He shrieked something in a high octave just as the muscleman took a step toward me. I heard a crack and the muscleman was down, his head lolling at a chiropractic angle.

Max the Silent stepped into view, his Mongol face expressionless, nostrils flared, eyes on the target. Hands at his side: one fisted to smash, the other knife–edged to chop.

"Sheba! Out!"

The dog backed off, cheated, but acting like a pro. The pimp was holding his thigh, moaning a plea to someone he didn't know.

I squatted next him, patted him down. Found the little two–shot derringer in his belt, popped it open. Loaded. No point warning this dirtbag—he wouldn't be a good listener. I held my hand parallel to the ground, made a flicking motion like I was brushing crumbs off a table. I heard a pop, like cloth snapped open in a gust of wind. The pimp slammed into the wall, eyes glazed. Blood bubbled on his lips. I stuck the derringer back into his belt—it was all the ID he'd need at the hospital.

He wouldn't come home tonight. The rest was up to Debbie.

A putty–colored sedan lumbered into the alley at the far end, bouncing on a bad set of shocks. The cops. Max merged with the shadows. I put on my dark glasses, snapped Sheba's harness, and made my slow way out to the street.

6

T
he E train let me out at Chambers Street, the downtown end of the line. I found my Plymouth parked at the curb near the World Trade Center. Unlocked the back door, unsnapped Sheba's harness. She leaped lightly to the seat.

I took off the dark glasses and climbed behind the wheel. None of the watching citizens blinked at the miraculous transformation.

7

I
turned the Plymouth toward the West Side Highway, slipped through the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel, tossed a token in the Exact Change lane, and cruised along the Belt Parkway just ahead of the rush–hour traffic.

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 next 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.