'They mean 5.56-millimeter. About the same thing.'
'Whatever,' McGowan snarled. He wasn't a forensics man. 'The girls were all torn up inside - ripped to pieces. Dead before they hit the ground.'
'You ever find either of the girls who were snatched?''
'Not a trace.'
'Were all the girls underage?'
'Either that or they looked it.'
'You sure it's random?'
'We thought of that. Questioned half the pimps in Times Square. We can't make a connection.'
'Who's 'we'? The Commissioner got a task force working on this?'
McGowan's laugh was too ugly to be cynical. 'Task force? Sure, and why would they be doing that? It's not like it was citizens getting killed.'
I sipped my apple juice, thinking out loud to draw him in. 'Seems like a strange piece to use . . .'
McGowan's eyes snapped into focus. 'Why?'
'It's not an assassin's weapon. Doesn't have the shock power of a heavier slug. That high speed's a waste at such close range. The bullets fly so fast that they tumble around as soon as they hit something. That's why the girls were so torn up inside. And it makes a hell of a bang - real hard to silence.'
I took another drag, thinking it through. I wasn't playing with McGowan: it really didn't make sense. 'Automatics jam,' I told him. 'You know that - that's why they don't let you guys carry the nine-millimeters you want. So why risk an automatic when you're only going to fire off a couple of shots? And if it was so random, why didn't they just sweep the street? With an M-16, they could chop down a dozen girls just as easy as one. You check with ATF?'
'They're too busy looking for Uzis. The guy I talked with said what you said. Doesn't even have to be a military piece - there's all kinds of semi-auto stuff floating around – AK-47s, AR-15s. Takes ten minutes to convert them to full auto, he said.'
'It's still the wrong gun for killing at close range. A heavier piece, even if you hit someone in the arm, you'd blow it right off. They'd be dead before the ambulance got there.'
'Maybe it's all they have?'
'Doesn't add up. This is an expensive deal, McGowan. And for what?'
His honey voice turned sour. 'Couple of bullets and gas money - it don't sound so expensive to me.'
'You ever find the van?'
'No. So?'
'So they didn't dump it after the shootings. So they have to have a place to stash it. They got to have at least a driver, a hooter, and another guy to fling open the doors. And the snatch . . . they had a switch-car for that, right?'
'Where'd you hear that?'
'Out there,' I said, pointing vaguely out the greasy window.
'Yeah. We found the switch-car. Took it apart, piece by piece. We got some decent prints, but no match.'
'Anything else?'
'There's no pattern. No thread. The girls didn't know each other. Two were on the runaway list, but that doesn't mean anything. Half the little hookers out there were on the list one time or another.'
'Any mail?'
He knew what I meant. Some serial killers have to tell the cops how clever they are.
'No letters. No phone calls. Blank fucking zero. It's so bad the pimps aren't even afraid to be seen talking to us - they want these guys off the street too. I even heard talk about a bounty . . .' His eyes locked on mine. 'You hear anything about a bounty, Burke?'
I met his stare. 'No.'
It didn't impress the cop. He knew where I'd been raised.
'People like that . . . who knows what could happen if they were arrested. A smart lawyer . . . maybe some kind of NGI deal . . . drop a few dimes. Maybe they'd make it a goddamned miniseries.'
NGI. Not Guilty, Insanity. 'Better they don't get arrested,' I said quietly.
His eyes were ball bearings.
41
I headed back to my office, weaving through the West Side blocks, checking the action. It looked the same to me. If the Ghost Van was trying to keep baby pross off the street, it wasn't working. I couldn't pick up the scent - you have to work close to the ground to do that. If it was out there, the Prof would find it.
Called Mama from a pay phone. Nothing.
Back at the office, I let Pansy out to her roof. I had a few more calls to make, but they'd have to wait until the afternoon.
Pansy ambled over to the desk, where I was working on the racing form, making that snarling noise she does when she's trying to tell me something. I knew what she wanted. 'I was at Dino's,' I told her, explaining why I hadn't bought her a present.
There was a trotter I fancied in the fourth race at Yonkers. Mystery Mary, a five-year-old mare, moving down from Canada. She'd been running in Open company at Greenwood, finishing pretty consistently in the money, but no wins. She had a lot of early speed, which is unusual for a mare, but she kept getting run down in the deep stretch. Greenwood is a five-eighths-of-a-mile track - a long run from the three-quarter pole to the finish line. Yonkers was a half-miler - a longer launch and a shorter way home. She was moving up to higher purses in New York, but I thought she had a shot if she could get away clean. I checked the last eight races. Mystery Mary was a surefooted little trotter - no breaks on her card. The morning line had her at 6 - 1. Most of the OTB bettors would use the Daily News as a handicapping form. All that would show is her last three outs: two thirds and a fifth-place finish. I made a mental note to call my broker before the close of business, flipped on the TV, and kicked back on the couch. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Abbott telling Costello that paying back rent was like betting on a dead horse.
It wasn't a good sleep. Dark, fleshy dreams. Flood facing the Cobra, the snake on his arm turning into the tattoo on Belle's thigh. Strega licking her bloody lips, crazy eyes full of ugly promises. The Ghost Van zoomed up a narrow street, a silent gray shark. Max at the end of the block, waiting, shielding Flower in one arm.
I woke up before the crash, sweating like when I'd had malaria. Sergeant Bilko was on the TV. A little past three o'clock.
I took a shower, changed my clothes. Pansy jumped on the couch as I was walking out the door.
Mama still had nothing for me. I dropped another quarter, called Maurice. He answered in his usual breezy style.
'Yeah?'
'It's Burke.'
'This a social call, or what?'
'Yonkers. Give me the two horse, fourth race. A deuce to win.'
'At Yonkers. Horse number two, race number four. Two on the nose, is that right?'
'Right. How you doing, Maurice?'
'You want conversation, play fucking Lotto,' he said, hanging up.
I changed phones, fed another quarter. I don't know why they make dimes anymore. I rang the direct-line number of a reporter I know.
'Morelli.'
'It's Burke. You got anything outside the clips on this Ghost Van?'
'Bullshit gossip. Cop talk. Nothing good.'
'The cops thirik they're close?'
'They're waiting for the van to get a parking ticket.'
