thing is, things don’t always make sense. And those that do, well sometimes they ain’t worth nothin’. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
“Ride?”
“You’re far too literal, my boy. Now sit down. We got work to do.”
Walsh eased himself down, leaned up against the wall of the subway. After a moment’s hesitation, Jeremy did the same.
“Fine. Good,” Walsh said. “Now, let’s talk about these favors. You did me the big one, gettin’ me out of the nuthouse. Gettin’ the lawyer you went to. Damn fine job.”
“It just seemed to me-”
“I know it did, my boy, and you were right. And that was a hell of a favor and now I’ll do one for you. Then you’ll do one for me and we’re quits.
“Now, to the business at hand.”
Walsh dug in his overcoat pocket, pulled out some sheets of paper folded in thirds. He looked over at Jeremy. “You got a pen?”
“No.”
Walsh shook his head. “Always carry a pen. Let that be a lesson to you. You never know when it might get you a million bucks.”
“What?”
“Never mind, my boy. Just happen to have one.”
Walsh fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Now then, something to write on. That’s the thing I didn’t bring. Something to write on. Well, this will have to do.”
Walsh hunched over, spread the paper flat on the floor of the subway platform.
“Now pay attention, my boy, to what I’m going to do.”
Behind them, the eyes of Joe Bissel focused blearily, uncomprehendingly on the scene, as Walsh took the ballpoint pen, poised it over the paper, and began to write: “I, Jack Walsh, being of sound mind and body …”
17
Steve Winslow’s voice was drugged with sleep. “Hello?”
“Steve? Mark.”
“What?”
“Mark. It’s me. Mark. Mark Taylor. Steve?”
“Yeah, Mark. Hello?”
“Steve. Wake up.”
Steve Winslow hunched himself to a sitting position. He rubbed his head. “Yeah, Mark. What time is it?”
“One-thirty.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Sorry. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“What?”
“Pipeline from headquarters called. Cops brought in a John Doe.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“That’s right. Just I.D.’d him as Jack Walsh.”
“No shit. Suicide or accident?”
“Murder.”
“Murder? You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Guy didn’t have all the details, but apparently the cops figure it as a thrill-kill.”
“Thrill-kill?”
“Yeah. Murder for kicks. It’s the new craze with kids. Wilding, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said impatiently. “So what’s the dope?”
“Well, part of the craze is pickin’ on the helpless and the homeless. So that’s what the cops think happened here.”
“Where’s here?”
“The subway.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, it would be the subway, wouldn’t it? Anyway, here’s the dope. It was in the subway. Sixty-sixth Street Station. Broadway line. Uptown platform. North end. Bum sleeping behind a dumpster.”
“So?”
“So someone poured gasoline over him, set him on fire.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“When’d it happen?”
“Ten-thirty, eleven, somewhere in there. Homeless man, John Doe. Then they pulled an I.D. Seems the guy had a wallet in his pocket, one of the credit cards in the middle hadn’t melted too bad to read. So they come up with the name Jack Walsh.”
“Oh shit.”
“Now,” Taylor said. “The reason I called you is, as far as I know, the name means nothing to them. The cops, I mean. Jack Walsh, it’s just a name. They don’t know who he is. Just another homeless man, they got no other motive, they put it down as a thrill-kill, and-”
“I got you, I got you,” Steve said. “Jesus Christ, what a mess. You said the 66th Street Station?”
“Right.”
“Meet you there.”
18
Steve Winslow paid off the cab at 66th and Broadway and headed for the subway station. Ordinarily it would have been faster just to take the subway there from the West Village where he lived, but at two in the morning it was apt to be a long time between trains and Steve was too impatient to wait.
Steve went down the subway steps, bought a token, went through the turnstile. The platform was more or less deserted, as it should have been at two in the morning. At the far uptown end, a lone cop stood in front of a section of platform that had been cordoned off with a yellow “Police Scene” tape.
As Steve stood looking, a voice said, “Psssst.”
Steve looked around and saw Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin standing just out of sight in an alcove just downtown from the token booth. He walked over.
“Hi, Mark, Tracy.”
Taylor jerked his thumb in Tracy’s direction. “Thought we might need her.”
“Thought I might kill him if he didn’t call me,” Tracy said. “Remember when he forgot the last time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said. “So what’s the scoop?”
“Nothing doing,” Taylor said. “I pumped the token clerk. Media’s come and gone. It was too late to make the eleven o’clock news, but they shot footage for tomorrow. Treating it as a thrill-kill, like I said. Speculation is, teenagers out for kicks.”
“Speculation?”
“Yeah. No hard facts. Just guesswork.”
“What about the cops?”
