The Follower (32 page)

“Thank you, sir!” the waiter shouted at John’s back as he left.

The bar was so close by that John didn’t bother driving
there. He walked down Ninety-second Street, then around the corner to the Big Easy.

It was a large, grungy, no-frills bar that catered to the same demographics as many Upper East Side bars. At night, it filled up with twenty-something beer drinkers, but the daytime crowd was mostly middle-aged, working-class men. Now, on a Monday afternoon, there were several construction-worker types at the bar, another guy playing Skee-Ball, and that was it.

Officer Sykes was waiting near the door.

“When you say two minutes you mean it,” Sykes said.

“That her?” John said. The blond bartender was watching them from behind the bar.

“Yeah, her name’s Mikala,” Sykes said. “She said she’ll talk to you.”

“She’s giving me that privilege, huh?” John said.

Sykes smiled and said, “You want me to stick around, boss?”

Boss
. John liked that. Sykes was a smart kid, showing respect for his superiors. You wanted to move up in the force, you had to kiss some ass, get your nose nice and brown.

“That’s okay,” John said. “But, hey, good work. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem, boss. Lemme know how it turns out.”

“Will do.”

John went over to the bar. Mikala was very attractive, definitely a wannabe actress, model type. She was blond, thin, and was wearing jeans and a cutoff T-shirt with the slogan STOP STARING right at the level of her breasts. Like a lot of waitresses and bartenders her age, she seemed to be on the dark side of thirty and had the hardened look of a woman who was sick of getting hit on by drunks and was frustrated that her career wasn’t going the way she’d thought it would. She was probably already thinking about giving up and going back to wherever she came from. He noticed that her mouth was slightly downturned. He would have bet she’d smiled a lot more before she moved to New York and had all her dreams crushed.

John showed his badge and said, “How you doin’, Mikala? I’m Detective Himoto, Nineteenth Precinct.”

She was looking away, avoiding eye contact. “I told the cop everything I know already.”

“Thank you,” John said. “We appreciate that very much. But since I’m running the case, I’d appreciate it if you told me as well.”

She rolled her eyes and then, in a very bored tone, said, “The guy came in here that night at, like, eleven thirty.”

“Why do you remember him in particular?”

“He was fucking hitting on me, that’s why.”

“You get hit on a lot, I imagine.”

“Yeah, that’s true, I do, but he was more persistent than most guys. I brought him his beer and he was like, ‘What’s your name? Where’re you from? Do I know you from somewhere?’ Like he was trying every lame line he could think of. I was like, ‘Look, I’m married, all right?’” She held up her left hand, showing a thick wedding band. “I call it my scumbag repellent. I’m not really married, but it keeps the pricks away, you know?”

John, taking notes, asked, “And you’re almost certain the guy was Andrew Barnett?”

“I’m pretty sure he told me his name was Andy. But, look, like I told the other cop, I don’t want my name in the paper about any of this.”

“I’m a cop, not a reporter. Did he talk to anybody else?”

“Yeah, these two girls.”

“Do you remember what they looked like?”

“One was pretty, had nice hair. Though I think he would’ve hit on anything with tits and a pulse. And maybe the pulse wasn’t so important.”

“What about the other girl?”

“I don’t remember her.”

“But you know there were two girls?”

“Look, I don’t, like, memorize how my customers look. Sorry.”

Thinking,
Man, what a bitch
, John asked, “How long was he talking to them?”

“I don’t know. Not long—maybe ten, fifteen minutes. But then he tried to pick one of them up.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he asked me for a fucking pen. Can you believe that? After I blew him off, he asks
me
for a pen? Like he thought I gave a shit and he was rubbing it in my face. I mean, I’m sorry the guy got killed, but he was a total jackass.”

“Is there anything else you remember? Anything he said or did?”

“Why would I remember what some prick does?”

“So your answer’s no.”

Her eyes widened slightly and she said, “Wait, he did talk to some other guy.”

“What other guy?”

“I don’t know, and don’t ask me what he looked like.”

“What did he look like?”

Mikala almost smiled. “I really wasn’t paying attention.”

“Think. This could be extremely important. Was he tall, short…?”

She shook her head in frustration for a few seconds. “I don’t know, medium tall? Definitely not very tall. But I’m really just guessing.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Casual, well dressed, a guy on his way home from work?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about hair?”

“Dark, I think. And I think he had a goatee. Yeah, he definitely had a goatee.”

“You ever seen him in here before?”

“No.”

“How many other bartenders work here?”

“Five. Six, if you count Jake, one of the bouncers. But one, Dan, only works one day a week.”

“You think they’ve seen this guy before? I mean, based on your description.”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you ask them?”

“I take it you never saw Barnett in here before, right?”

“I don’t know, but it was the first time he ever hit on me, that’s for sure. I never forget the real slimeballs.”

“I’m gonna have an artist come down here, see if we can get a sketch of the guy you saw Barnett with.”

“But I have no idea what he—”

“You remembered his hair and goatee—maybe you’ll have more revelations. We’re also going to have to talk to any other employees who were working that night. Was there a manager here?”

“Nicole.”

“I’ll need to speak to Nicole. And what about regulars? Were there any customers, steadies, who were here at the time?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

John looked around. “You don’t have security cameras in here, do you?”

“No, but I know they’re thinking about installing them.”

“What about outside?”

She shook her head.

“Too bad,” John said.

Mikala went back to work and John looked around the bar some more. If he’d gotten this lead the day after the murder, he might’ve been able to find a print, but now that a few days had gone by, finding any physical evidence in here would be highly unlikely.

He went outside and walked up and down the block, checking out the exteriors of each building for surveillance cameras. Unfortunately, the stores directly to the left and right didn’t have any, but the apartment building on the next block had one. With any luck, it had recorded the dark-haired guy and Andrew Barnett passing by on the night of the murder.

John went into the building and got the number and contact name of the security firm responsible for the surveillance. He called right away and explained the situation to a customer service rep. The rep said he’d have one of the people in charge get in touch with him as soon as possible.

“I need to see that video immediately,” John said. “I’ll get a fucking court order if I have to.”

“I’ll do everything possible to expedite the situation,” the guy said nervously.

“Do more than that,” John said. “I’ll give you an hour or we’re coming down there.”

The hard-ass routine worked. Five minutes later the head of security at the company called John and said the video would be at the precinct by five P.M.

Before the security guy got in touch, John had called in an order for a sketch artist to sit down with Mikala and come up with a composite of the possible suspect. For someone she’d had a casual interaction with, she could already recall more details about his appearance than the average person would’ve been able to. Hopefully, when she sat down with the artist, more details would emerge and they’d get a good sketch of what the guy looked like. Then they could get it in the papers and on the news, and the case would quickly snowball toward a positive conclusion.

Next, John called Nicole, the bar’s manager. It was a 718 number, meaning she could live in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, or the Bronx. He didn’t want to waste time traveling, so he questioned her over the phone. He explained the situation, but unfortunately she had no memory whatsoever of seeing Andrew Barnett, or the other guy, that evening. While he was on with her, his call waiting showed that Louis was calling. John ended the call with Nicole and said to Louis, “I was about to call you. We just got a big break.”

“Yeah?” Louis said. “What’s that?”

“I have a bartender who saw Barnett leave with a guy, probably within an hour of when he was killed. I think she can describe him, too.”

“That’s great,” Louis said.

“I’m also gonna look at some surveill—”

“Listen,” Louis cut him off. “I’ve got some bad news for you, man.”

John knew what was coming. “What news?”

“You’re off the case, John. Sorry, there’s nothing I can do. This came down from up top, from the commissioner, and he has the mayor on his ass.”

“But I’m telling you,” John said, “I’m about to—”

“Come on, John, you know how it is. And it’s not like I didn’t give you any fucking warning. Where’re you now?”

John shook his head, then said, “By the bar.”

“Great,” Louis said. “I’ll tell Barasco from Manhattan North to meet you down there ASAP and you can fill him in on what’s going on.”

It had to be Nick Fucking Barasco. If there was one guy John didn’t want to hand this golden case over to, it was him. Barasco had gotten all of the sexy murder cases lately, was a regular on the local news, and had gotten a rep as one of the top detectives in the NYPD. Normally John didn’t have a problem with other people’s success. Like most detectives on the force, Barasco was good at what he did or he wouldn’t’ve been doing it. But Barasco was the type who let the success go right to his head. He always overdressed, in Armani and Hugo Boss, and walked with a goddamn strut like he thought he was a movie star. And he always treated John like shit. Although they’d met maybe a dozen times, whenever they saw each other, Barasco always played dumb, saying, “Have we met?” The last time John had seen Barasco was just three weeks ago, at that funeral for that cop who was shot on Staten Island. At the chapel, John went up to him, just to bullshit and say hello, when Andrew Goldman, a city councilman, came over. What did Barasco do? He blew John off in mid-conversation, actually turning his back on him, to talk to Goldman. John had decided that that was it, that he would never go out of his way to be civil to that prick again.

Now, here he was, about to hand him a case that had practically been solved.

Swallowing the last speck of his pride, John said, “Yeah, no problem, I’ll wait here for Nick.” Louis asked him for the address of the bar. John gave it to him, then Louis said, “Again, I’m real sorry about this, man. I know how much you wanted it.”

“It’s fine,” John said, but even if he had the acting skills of Al Pacino, he wouldn’t have been able to make that sound believable. “Really, it’s no problem at all. I totally understand—I get it.”

Then John clicked off and said, “Goddamn fuckin’ bullshit.”

He stood on the sidewalk, cursing for a while, probably sounding mentally disturbed. The most frustrating thing wasn’t losing the case to Barasco; it was that Barasco would benefit from his work. It was like when you struggle to open a jar of peanut butter. You try and try and finally loosen it, and then somebody else comes over and says, “Let me try,” and the cap comes right off.

John got a cup of coffee at a deli. He drank it on the sidewalk in front of the bar. When the coffee was gone, there was still no sign of Barasco. He started to wonder if the guy would even bother to show. Maybe he figured if John Himoto had a lead, it couldn’t possibly be worth his while.

The artist arrived. John had him sit down with Mikala and start working on a sketch of the dark-haired guy, but there was still no sign of Barasco. John reported this to Louis, who told him that Barasco was on his way and to keep waiting.

Almost another hour went by, and then Barasco and another cocky, Italian-looking guy—probably his partner—came into the bar. The other guy was a real Prick Barasco in training, with his hair slicked back the same way, and wearing a similar, uncreased black designer suit. If they just had the sunglasses, they would’ve been the Men in Fucking Black.

As they entered the bar, they walked right past John and he had to say, “Hey, Nick,” to get them to stop. Barasco squinted at John in a confused way.

Thinking,
Is this guy for real, or what?
John said, “Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am. It’s John. John Himoto.”

Nick smiled—he’d whitened the shit out of his teeth—and said, “Oh, yeah, right. How are ya? This is my partner, Tony Martinelli.”

“Hey, man,” Tony said, shaking John’s hand.

“You remember me, don’t you?” John asked Nick.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“We just saw each other at Santos’s funeral.”

Barasco’s eyes were doing that annoying wandering thing they always did, looking around the room, acting like he was already losing interest in the conversation and was trying to find someone more interesting to talk to.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” Nick said.

“Oh,” John said. “Because you looked at me like you didn’t know who I was, so I thought you might’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t forget,” Barasco said. “Santos’s funeral. Yeah, right.”

He was still acting like he was seeing John’s face through a fog, the way you might barely remember the kid who sat in the seat in front of you in sixth grade when you meet him on the street thirty years later. John decided that Nick either had a severe head injury with massive memory loss and shouldn’t be doing police work, or this whole forgetting thing was just a big act, a power trip that he pulled on everybody he considered beneath him.

“Sorry to bust in on your action like this,” Barasco said, though it was obvious that he lived for moments like this. “But, hey, you know how it is.”