Darkfall

through the drawers and compartments of a Sheraton desk and a wall of beautifully crafted oak cabinets.

Roy Nevetski looked like a high school English teacher, circa 1955. White shirt. Clip-on bow tie. Gray vee- neck sweater.

By contrast, Nevetski's partner, Carl Blaine, looked like a thug. Nevetski was on the slender side, but Blaine was stocky, barrel-cheated, slab-shouldered, bullnecked. Intelligence and sensitivity seemed to glow in Roy Nevetski's face, but Blaine appeared to be about as sensitive as a gorilla.

Judging from Nevetski's appearance, Jack expected him to conduct a neat search, leaving no marks of his passage; likewise, he figured Blaine to be a slob, scattering debris behind, leaving dirty pawprints in his wake. In reality, it was the other way around. When Roy Nevetski finished poring over the contents of a drawer, the floor at his feet was littered with discarded papers, while Carl Blaine inspected every item with care and then returned it to its original resting place, exactly as he had found it.

“Just stay the hell out of our way,” Nevetski said irritably. “We're going to pry into every crack and crevice in this fuckin' joint. We aren't leaving until we find what we're after.” He had a surprisingly hard voice, all low notes and rough edges and jarring metallic tones, like a piece of broken machinery. “So just step back.”

“Actually,” Rebecca said, “now that Vastagliano's dead, this is pretty much out of your hands.”

Jack winced at her directness and all-too-familiar coolness.

“It's a case for Homicide now,” Rebecca said. “It's not so much a matter for Narcotics any more.”

“Haven't you ever heard of interdepartmental cooperation, for Christ's sake?” Nevetski demanded.

“Haven't you ever heard of common courtesy?”

Rebecca asked.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jack said quickly, placatingy. “There's room for all of us. Of course there is.”

Rebecca shot a malevolent look at him.

He pretended not to see it. He was very good at pretending not to see the looks she gave him. He'd had a lot of practice at it.

To Nevetski, Rebecca said, “There's no reason to leave the place like a pig sty.”

“Vastagliano's too dead to care,” Nevetski said.

“You're just making it harder for Jack and me when we have to go through all this stuff ourselves.”

“Listen,” Nevetski said, “I'm in a hurry. Besides, when I run a search like this, there's no fuckin' reason for anyone else to double-check me. I never miss anything.”

“You'll have to excuse Roy,” Carl Blaine said, borrowing Jack's placating tone and gestures.

“Like hell,” Nevetski said.

“He doesn't mean anything by it,” Blaine said.

“Like hell,” Nevetski said.

“He's extraordinarily tense this morning,” Blaine said. In spite of his brutal face, his voice was soft, cultured, mellifluous. “Extraordinarily tense.”

“From the way he's acting,” Rebecca said, “I thought maybe it was his time of the month.”

Nevetski glowered at her.

There's nothing so inspiring as police camaraderie, Jack thought.

Blaine said, “It's just that we were conducting a tight surveillance on Vastagliano when he was killed.”

“Couldn't have been too tight,” Rebecca said.

“Happens to the best of us,” Jack said, wishing she'd shut up.

“Somehow,” Blaine said, “the killer got past us, both going in and coming out. We didn't get a glimpse of him.”

“Doesn't make any goddamned sense, “ Nevetski said, and he slammed a desk drawer with savage force.

“We saw the Parker woman come in here around twenty past seven,” Blaine said. “Fifteen minutes later, the first black-and-white pulled up. That was the first we knew anything about Vastagliano being snuffed. It was embarrasing. The captain won't be easy on us.”

“Hell, the old man'll have our balls for Christmas decorations.”

Blaine nodded agreement. “It'd help if we could find Vastagliano's business records, turn up the names of his associates, customers, maybe collect enough evidence to make an important arrest.”

“We might even wind up heroes,” Nevetski said, “although right now I'd settle for just getting my head above the shit line before I drown.”

Rebecca's face was lined with disapproval of Nevetski's incessant use of obscenity.

Jack prayed she wouldn't chastise Nevetski for his foul mouth.

She leaned against the wall beside what appeared to be (at least to Jack's unschooled eye) an original Andrew Wyeth oil painting. It was a farm scene rendered in intricate and exquisite detail.

Apparently oblivious of the exceptional beauty of the painting, Rebecca said, “So this Vincent Vastagliano was in the dope trade?”

“Does McDonald's sell hamburgers?” Nevetski asked.

“He was a blood member of the Carramazza family,” Blaine said.

Of the five mafia families that controlled gambling, prostitution, and other rackets in New York, the Carramazzas were the most powerful.

“In fact,” Blaine said, “Vastagliano was the nephew of Gennaro Carramazza himself. His uncle Gennaro gave him the Gucci route.”

“The what?” Jack asked.

“The uppercrust clientele in the dope business,” Blaine said. “The kind of people who have twenty pairs of Gucci shoes in their closet.”

Nevetski said, “Vastagliano didn't sell shit to school kids. His uncle wouldn't have let him do anything that seamy. Vince dealt strictly with show business and society types. Highbrow muckety-mucks.”

“Not that Vince Vastagliano was one of them,” Blaine quickly added. “He was just a cheap hood who moved in the right circles only because he could provide the nose candy some of those limousine types were looking for.”

“He was a scumbag,” Nevetski said. “This house, all those antiques — this wasn't him. This was just an image he thought he should project if he was going to be the candyman to the jet set.”

“He didn't know the difference between an antique and a K-Mart coffee table,” Blaine said. “All these books. Take a closer look. They're old textbooks, incomplete sets of outdated encyclopedias, odds and ends, bought by the yard from a used-book dealer, never meant to be read, just dressing for the shelves.”

Jack took Blaine's word for it, but Rebecca, being Rebecca, went to the bookcases to see for herself.

“We've been after Vastagliano for a long time,” Nevetski said. “We had a hunch about him. He seemed like a weak link. The rest of the Carramazza family is as disciplined as the fuckin' Marine Corps. But Vince drank too much, whored around too much, smoked too much pot, even used cocaine once in a while.”

Blaine said, “We figured if we could get the goods on him, get enough evidence to guarantee him a prison term, he'd crack and cooperate rather than do hard time. Through him, we figured to finally lay our hands on some of the wiseguys at the heart of the Carramazza organization.”

Nevetski said, “We got a tip that Vastagliano would be contacting a South American cocaine wholesaler named Rene Oblido.”

“Our informant said they were meeting to discuss new sources of supply. The meeting was supposed to be yesterday or today. It wasn't yesterday—”

“And for damned sure, it won't happen today, not now that Vastagliano is nothing but a pile of bloody garbage.” Nevetski looked as if he would spit on the carpet in disgust.

“You're right. It's screwed up,” Rebecca said, turning away from the bookshelves. “It's over. So why not split and let us handle it?”

Nevetski gave her his patented glare of anger.

Even Blaine looked as if he were finally about to snap at her.

Jack said, “Take your time. Find whatever you need.

You won't be in our way. We've got a lot of other things to do here. Come on, Rebecca. Let's see what the