Footsteps of the Hawk

Halfway through talking to Belinda, I knew who I needed for this one. Morelli was off the set now. After years and years at ground zero, he'd finally hit it big. A hardcore reporter from the old school, his copy was always gold, and he's been covering the Mob for so long they probably ask him for advice. Anyway, he wrote a book and it caught fire. He's been on the Holy Coast for a while now, tending the harvest.

But a pro like Morelli doesn't move on until he's trained some new recruits. J. P. Hauser was his choice. I remember when Morelli first told me about him.

'I ask him, go over and see this guy, supposed to be an informant, staying in some rat–trap over in Times Square,' Morelli told me. 'This guy, his story is that he's got a bad ticker, so he wants to make his peace with God, give me all the inside dope on a muscle operation Ciapietro's crew is running out at the airport. So I tell J.P., get me everything, all right?' Morelli smiled, taking a sip of his drink. Years ago, it used to be Cutty Sark and Lucky Strikes. Now it's red wine and he doesn't smoke at all. What the hell, at least he doesn't drink mineral water and pay his bills over a modem.

'Okay, so, a few hours later, I get this frantic call from the informant. He's screaming blue murder. Said JP goes up there, tosses the place worse than any parole officer ever did. JP, he takes the serial number from this guy's clock radio, looks at the labels in his coat, checks his shoe size. Then he whips out one of those blood– pressure things…you know, the kind you slip over your finger? Wants to see if this guy's really got a bad heart, you ever hear anything like that? The kid doesn't just take notes, he's got a tape recorder. And another tape recorder in his pocket too, just in case. Makes the guy go over his story a dozen times, out of sequence, backwards, you know, the whole bit. The federales could take lessons from old JP I mean, the man takes it all. He's a fucking vacuum cleaner, you understand? He's gonna pull the dirt out until they pull his plug. I fucking love this kid.'

I worked with Hauser myself a couple of times since Morelli split. Any twit with a street thesaurus and an active imagination can write a newspaper column— but Hauser, if he's got a God, it's The Facts. And I learned this much about him too: he's got a set on him so big that, if you added one more and painted them gold, you could hang them over a pawnshop.

Early on a Sunday morning, I figure Hauser's probably at home. He lives on Central Park West, somewhere in the Nineties. But he keeps a dump of an office in the garment district. Doesn't matter where he is— I know how his phone system works.

I drove up Eighth Avenue until I found a parking space a few blocks south of Port Authority. I slid in and punched the number into the cellular.

'You have reached the voice mail of J. P. Hauser,' the tape said. 'Leave a number and a time to call. I'll get back to you.'

I waited for the beep, hit 333 on my phone, waited again. Another beep–tone. This time I hit 49. Waited again while the phone rang.

'Burke?' Hauser's voice came through.

'I got something,' I told him. 'Meet you…where?'

'How about my office? Give me half an…no, make it forty–five minutes, okay?'

'You got it,' I said, and cut the connection.

That's one of the beauties of cellular phones— you call from where you're supposed to meet someone, you're already there— no time for the other guy to set up a welcoming committee. Not that I distrusted Hauser, but if I let my old habits die hard, the same thing could happen to me.

I was at the curb when I spotted Hauser through the windshield. He's medium height, with reddish–brown hair and a trim beard to match, but it was his walk that drew my eyes. He was coming fast, like he always does. You stop to smell the roses in this neighborhood, you'll need a stomach pump.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, fell into step with Hauser. He used his own key to open the outside door— the security guard doesn't work weekends. Not a big loss either. One time I came to see Hauser during the week, signed the register 'Deputy Dog. The guard never looked at it. Never looked at my face either.

We went up in the freight elevator, stopped at the fourth floor. Hauser unlocked his office and we both went inside. He walked around turning things on. As the screen on his computer was blinking into life, he pulled a couple of sheets of thermal paper out of his fax machine, glanced at them once, tossed them in a wire basket on his desk. He sat back in an old green leather swivel chair behind his desk, tipped his hat back on his head, said, 'What's the story?'

To Hauser, that's the meaning of life.

I moved some files off the couch onto the floor and took a seat. Lit a smoke. Hauser didn't move, didn't reach for a notebook, didn't do anything. Okay, I called the meeting— it was my move.

'You know about a guy called George Piersall?' I asked.

'Sex killer,' Hauser replied in his level newsman's voice. 'He pleaded guilty to some kind of sex crime over in Jersey, then they charged him with a homicide in the Village. He came back to court here for that one. Rolled the dice, drew the max. So?'

'You follow the trial?'

'No. When it comes to rape, there's always the same three defenses: one, it never happened; two, she consented; three: SODDI. What's the big deal?'

SODDI. Some Other Dude Did It, That's a Legal Aid expression, but I figured Hauser could have pulled it from anywhere. It's Top of the Charts on Riker's Island— number one with a full clip of bullets.

'I'm not arguing about the Jersey one,' I told him. 'That's a closed coffin. But when it comes to the murder on University Place, I got someone who says Piersall's innocent.'

Hauser raised an eyebrow, a classier version of a sneer, but I plunged ahead. 'Not 'legally' innocent,' I said, making little quote marks with my fingers, 'innocent for real. This person says there was a signature to the murder…to three murders. A red ribbon.'

'So there's a signature…Why couldn't it be Piersall's signature?'

'For the one on University Place, I guess it could have been. But I said three murders, not one. And this person says the other two happened since Piersall's been locked down. Same MO. Same signature.'

'What's the punch line?' Hauser asked, leaning forward.

'The punch line is a two–parter,' I told him. 'One, the cops never released that piece of info, so it can't be a copycat. Two, the cops working the open cases, they're not looking backward, see? If they drop someone for the new crimes, it isn't gonna do Piersall any good.'

'This…'person' of yours…how reliable are they?'

'I don't know. But I can tell you this much: the person is a cop. A detective, on the job right now.'

'What's their interest in this?'

'Personal. At least I think so— I wouldn't swear to it.'

'If you wouldn't swear to it, it has to be pretty shaky.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' I said, giving him a half–smile to show I wasn't taking offense. 'The question is…are you interested?'

'What's in it for me?' he asked. An honest man's question in our part of the world.

'The usual, I guess. Whatever you reporter guys usually want. Exclusive this, exclusive that…you know.'

'Will this…'person' talk to me? Even off the record?'

'Sure. I can make that a condition. Only I don't need to tell them what you do, okay? I can just say you're working with me.'

'No,' Hauser said. 'It has to be straight up— the truth from the beginning. If they want to spring this Piersall, they have to know the media could be a help.'

'Maybe. But they wouldn't just want a lot of noise made, you understand? It'd have to be the real thing.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning it was a stand–up conviction, far as I can tell. He's got a lawyer now. Raymond Fortunato.'

'Oh,' Hauser said, taking a breath. 'It's like that, huh?'

'I don't know what it's like,' I told him truthfully. 'No way Fortunato's gonna do this without he gets paid. The