Speak of the Devil (40 page)

“Charlie here was watching the tube when I arrived. I saw your little act there with blondie. Nice language, Fritz.”

I took a step forward and Carroll waved his gun at me. “Stop right there.” He returned the gun to Margo’s head. She hadn’t said a word. Her hair had fallen into her face and she was giving me one of her darkest looks. It came to me as if it were at the far end of a long tunnel.

“Let her go,” I said evenly. “Let them both go. For Christ’s sake, get an ambulance out here. If you want to take me off somewhere and point your gun at me, let’s do it. Leave them out of it. They have nothing to do with any of this.”

“That’s exactly what I came out here to find out,” Carroll said. He refixed his grip on Margo’s hair, pulling her head back.

My breath was short. “Let her go, Tommy. Or I swear—”

Carroll was having trouble with his own breath. “Or you swear
what
? Goddammit, I asked you to do one . . . simple thing. Just one. Locate Ramos. I should have known better. I know how you run everything by your old partner. I thought I’d come out here and see what kind of progress report old Charlie could give me. I can’t say he was . . . being too cooperative.” He tugged again on Margo’s hair. “Then this one came dropping by. And look what she had with her.”

I followed his eyes. I noticed that Donna Bia’s cell phone was sitting on the coffee table, next to a stack of magazines. Over by the door, Patrick Noon attempted to rise up onto an elbow. He managed to make it halfway up, then collapsed again.

Charlie spoke up. “Your man’s dying over there, Carroll. Why don’t—”

“Shut up.” Carroll inclined his head toward Noon.

“What does he know?”

“Jesus, Tommy, he doesn’t know anything, either. Is this your latest method of damage control?”

Carroll considered me a moment. “What do
you
know?”

“Angel Ramos is dead,” I said.

“I got that on the TV.”

“Cox isn’t.”

He tried not to show his reaction, but he failed. “Bullshit. You’re lying.”

“I’m not. He got hit, but he’s alive. So far, anyway.”

“That’s crap.”

“It’s not. It’s fact. What’s wrong? Do you have a problem with that? Cox is as corrupt a cop as they come, Tommy. What should you care if he lives?”

Carroll said nothing. He was trying to sort out whether I was bluffing. Margo started doing something strange with her eyes. She clenched them tightly, then opened them widely and looked off to her right. She did this several times. I saw what she was trying to say. When Noon had tried to rise, he’d rolled off of his service pistol. Carroll followed my eyes.

“One step in that direction and this one’s gone.” He pressed his pistol tighter against Margo’s head, then he indicated Charlie. “Him too. I’m sorry, Fritz. That’s how it has to go.”

Charlie muttered, “Bastard.”

Once more, I felt a shortness of breath. The edges of my vision were washing away as the scene in front of me seemed to be retreating. I was slipping into a tunnel-vision view of Margo and Tommy Carroll sitting a distant fifteen feet from me. Carroll was still speaking.

“What’s up with Cox? Level with me. Is he really alive?”

I shuffled forward a step. “He’s alive, Tommy. That’s on the level. And something tells me if he pulls through, he won’t be likely to keep his trap shut. Not if he thinks he can cut some sort of deal.”

“He’s . . . a bum.” It seemed to take all of the big man’s breath to get the sentence out.

“Maybe. But you know how prosecutors are. They’ll make deals with bums so long as the bum can give up a bigger bum.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry. Was that a little too close to home?” I inched forward.

“I’ll tell you who’s the bum in all this. Goddamn Marty Leavitt. He’s a sorry son of a bitch if ever there was one.”

“You already gave me this speech last night.”

“I didn’t tell you
shit
last night. That son of a bitch is a rapist. You were on to that, weren’t you, that nun thing? Damn smart-ass punk really fucking thought he’d gotten away with it. That stupid girl with her hundred stupid different stories . . . anyone with half a brain could tell she was protecting someone. There were at least four people questioned who told how she’d been mooning all over Leavitt. Big handsome ass hero, prosecuting her parents’ killer.” The police commissioner shook some of the sweat out of his eyes. He resembled an angry bear. “Who the hell prosecutes
him
when he goes off on this young girl and rapes her and beats her half to death? No one. He mauls this kid like a
beast
, then walks away. That’s just not right, Fritz. You know that’s not right.”

I moved forward. “What did you know about any of that, Tommy? Your beat wasn’t Brooklyn.”

Carroll scoffed. “I know people. I knew Tony DiMarco. He was the lead investigator. He met with me one night. He called me in. He was in a fix. He suspected it was Martin Leavitt who’d attacked that girl. He laid it out for me. He had the case.”

“Why didn’t he just have Leavitt arrested?”

“Get real, Fritz. Leavitt was already Mr. Big out there. You pull someone like that in, even if you’ve got the goods, you’re finished. You know what I’m saying. Leavitt had friends. A lot more friends than DiMarco. And Tony was six years from retirement. I gave him some pre-retirement advice. ‘Drop it. Let Leavitt walk. The bastard will come up short someday. A shadow like that can’t go away.’ Give Tony credit—he argued with me about it. But I finally convinced him.”

“Why’d you do that, Tommy? That’s insane.”

Margo had closed her eyes. Carroll brought up his free arm and wiped more sweat from his face. “Fucking right it was insane. You think I don’t know that? Sometimes you’ve got to make the call. That’s what I did. I gave that punk a pass. I let him walk.” Carroll’s eyes narrowed. He ran his tongue across his dry lips. “But the bastard finally came up short, Fritz. Prick thinks he can throw me to the wolves and I’m just going to sit on my ass and take it?”

I got it.

“Jesus, Tommy . . . you?
You
sent him those letters?”

He nodded tersely. “Leavitt saw the suicide note. When he heard about the nun who’d offed herself in Prospect Park, he went through the pipeline to get a copy of her suicide note. Stupidest thing he could have done. No one goes through the pipeline without me hearing about it. Your old man taught me that one. Make everybody out there your ear.”

“What did Leavitt want with Margaret’s suicide note?”

“If you ask me, he just wanted to see if she screwed him over at the end.”

“She didn’t. The note was just babble.”

“Yeah. So was most of the crap in Nightmare’s notes. Just enough of the same kind of babble for Leavitt to know he was screwed if he didn’t do everything that was asked of him.”

“The note I saw didn’t mention anything about Margaret King.”

“Of course not. Wise up, Fritz. What you saw was a copy. Leavitt typed that one up. He left out the real good stuff.”

“Jesus, Tommy.”

Carroll gave a hard smile. “
I
screwed that bastard over in the end. You think I’m letting a punk like that smear me? Hustle me out of office? I don’t fucking think so. Marty Leavitt’s not taking me down. That’s just not going to happen. End of story. Sorry, Fritz.”

“
You’re
Nightmare,” I said. “For Christ’s sake, let’s start talking evil, Tommy. What the hell kind of twisted crap are you trying to get away with?”

“Forget it. I’m not nothing anymore.”

He released his grip on Margo and shoved her forward with so much force that she pitched onto the floor. Charlie jerked his chair around and I got exactly one step closer before Police Commissioner Tommy Carroll swiveled his gun, bit down on the end of the barrel and pulled the trigger. The roar was deafening. Charlie recoiled.

“Jesus Christ!”

Carroll slumped sideways. Margo continued along the carpet on her hands and knees. She reached me and rose up weightlessly from the floor as if she’d momentarily licked the pull of gravity. Her arms looped around my neck, and she buried her head under my chin.

“Fritz, Fritz, Fritz, Fritz . . .”

THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE BAGGAGE-CLAIM AREA LOOKED SO MUCH LIKE Shirley Temple that I did no fewer than three double takes. The mass of ringlets, the bright, intelligent eyes, the swollen-apple cheeks. She wore a short bell-shaped plaid dress and shiny black shoes, and I had no trouble imagining her hoofing it up the stairs to the arrivals hall with Bill “Bojangles” Robinson himself. Her mother was somewhat less glamorous. Around five foot four, she had her daughter’s cheeks, though to less cute effect. No ringlets, and her face was etched with anticipation. The two were each wearing an oversize button with the face of a young bristle-headed man posing in front of an American flag. As the passengers began descending the stairs into the baggage area, the mother reached into her purse and handed her daughter a small American flag on a stick. Little Shirley Temple began jumping up and down; she could barely contain herself.

Me, I was able to contain myself. Airports generally put me to sleep. I positioned myself behind the phalanx of limo drivers who stood holding handwritten signs for the arriving passengers. BENNETT. FISK. WELCH. DALY. I spotted a discarded sign sticking out of a nearby trash bin and fetched it on a whim. I asked one of the drivers if I could borrow his Magic Marker, and I scribbled DORIS DAY on the back of the sign. A few minutes later, a real Shirley appeared. I spotted her as she was coming down the stairs. She was walking alongside a young serviceman on a pair of crutches. I recognized his face. The two were laughing about something. The little girl darted forward, waving her flag and shrieking. The serviceman gave my mother a quick nod and hopped on one foot quickly down the rest of the stairs, letting his crutches drop to the side as he leaned down to scoop his daughter up into his arms.

My mother turned and spotted me. Her face opened in a frozen laugh. “Ha! Doris Day! In your dreams.”

I came forward and gave her a peck on the forehead. “Welcome home.”

“You’re cute, in your way, but where’s Rock Hudson?”

“Rock’s dead.”

“Gay, too. How many times is one man going to break your mother’s heart?” She raised a warning finger. “Don’t answer that.”

“You’re looking good,” I said, lifting her bag from her shoulder and slinging it over mine. “California must agree with you.”

“It does. The people are as batty as they come, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. Half the girls are made of silicone, but they seem to be enjoying themselves, too. Tell you the truth, I couldn’t live there.” She flashed me a smile. “But I enjoyed myself.” She gave me the once-over. “Say, you’re looking nice and formal. This must be what it’d be like to have a lawyer for a son.”

“They’re burying Tommy this afternoon,” I said.

She caught her breath. “Ah, Jesus. Tommy Carroll. Between your father and Tommy, that job’s not holding such a good track record, is it? At least Tommy gets a full-fledged funeral. At least that.”

“Let’s get your suitcase.”

We waited a few rounds at the carousel before her bag finally showed. The soldier with the crutches was standing nearby, his wife and his daughter hanging all over him. Shirley indicated him as I stepped forward to fetch her bag. “We were seated together. He told me I was pretty.”

“Did you ask him, or did he just volunteer it?”

“What do you mean, did I
ask
him? Christ, you’re a rotten son. He said I have nice eyes.”

“You do. He’s right. There’s no green greener than the emerald green.”

She made a soft clucking sound. “I could use a drink.”

“Let’s get into the city. I thought maybe you’d want to go to Tommy’s funeral.”

I wasn’t just humoring her. About the eyes, I mean. They were still plenty sharp, plenty arresting. The old man used to wax like Yeats about Shirley Malone’s eyes. And his blood wasn’t even Irish.

“I see you let the place fall to hell without me.”

“It’s a tough old town,” I said. “It bounces back.”

She glanced quickly over at the soldier, then back at me. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

A MASSIVE POLICE SWEEP OF ANYONE WHO HAD EVER EVEN PRONOUNCED the name Angel Ramos had been launched within an hour of his death. Immunities, bargains and outright bribes were all employed. Sometime around three o’clock in the morning, Philip Byron had been located—alive—chained to an overturned washing machine in the basement of an abandoned row house about a mile from the Flea Club. He was dehydrated and suffering from almost no sleep in over seventy-two hours. He was taken immediately to the hospital for treatment. The infection that had set in on his mutilated hand was not as bad as it might have been. He made a brief nonspeaking appearance on television from his hospital bed, giving a wan thumbs-up with his good hand. The doctors expected a full recovery.

Patrick Noon pulled through as well. Tommy Carroll’s bullet had shattered a rib and damaged a lung, but Noon was out of the hospital in a few days. Leonard Cox also survived his wounds. He was absent four feet of his small intestine, and he’d be in the market for a new kneecap, but the prognosis was that he would live to see both his trial and the many, many years of prison time that likely stretched beyond that.

I’d huddled for two days with Remy Sanchez and lawyers from the district attorney’s office and laid out for them all that I knew or presumed I knew concerning Margaret King, Leonard Cox, Roberto Diaz, Angel Ramos, Tommy Carroll and Mayor Martin Leavitt. I was, may I say, the center of attention.

When it became clear that Cox was going to survive his wounds, I suggested a tactic that was debated for several hours and finally agreed upon. I proposed that Cox not be informed of Tommy Carroll’s suicide. He was kept away from radio and television and newspapers and from all personal visitors. His lawyers cried foul and declared that their client was also being kept away from his civil rights. Cox’s doctors announced—per instruction—that the health of their patient required this near-complete isolation and that yes, they would duly testify to that effect in court if requested to do so.