Footsteps of the Hawk

person who came to me, they said Piersall has a trust fund. A nice–sized one.'

'Well, I guess he can't spend it in prison, huh?'

I looked at Hauser for a minute, drifting back inside with my thoughts. Maybe he'd never really understand, but there's one thing about Hauser— he'd try like all hell. 'There's plenty of uses for money behind the Walls,' I told him. 'There's a maximum amount you can have on the books— it's probably changed since I was inside, but it still won't be much. You can buy cigarettes with it. And you can trade a couple of crates of smokes for any work you want done, understand? You got money in there, you don't have to eat Mainline. If you're weak, or if you don't have a crew, you can buy protection. Enough cash, you can buy bodyguards. There's other things too: you can take care of the hacks— get them to look the other way when you have a visit…'

'So stuff could get smuggled in?'

'That, sure. There's sex too.'

'You mean…other prisoners?'

'Yeah, some of them go on the whore inside. But that's not what I meant— if you're connected right, you can get it on right there.'

'In the Visiting Room? In front of everyone?'

'Handjobs, maybe…I was talking about the real thing. They use the bathrooms for that. You take your visitor in there, do what you want. Inside, everything runs on juice— you got it, you can use it. Next time you read about a stabbing on Riker's Island, look close— you'll see it was nothing personal. Just turf strutting— mostly on the pay phones. Everyone's supposed to form a line, wait their turn. When your time's up, you're supposed to move on. You got cash on the books, you can pay for more time. And if that don't fly, you can buy some muscle, get you the same result, understand?'

'Yeah,' said Hauser. I watched his face as he made mental notes. Hauser was an insatiable info–maniac— if it was out there, he wanted it.

'When you hear about a gun turning up inside, you can bet it was the guards,' I told him. 'Same for drugs, for serious weight, anyway— there's only so much stuff a visitor can mouth–carry. It's a special economy in there— the prices are real, real high. The guards, they're just people. Some of them go for the gold.'

'You think that's what this Piersall may be doing?'

'I don't know.' I shrugged. 'It's too late for jury–juice now— Fortunato took it on appeal.'

Hauser took off his glasses, polished them on a piece of cloth he took out of the pocket of his blue work shirt. His wrists were much thicker than you'd think from looking at his build. I saw a quick flash of a heavy steel chronograph as he polished. Without the glasses, his eyes had a harsh, tight–focused glint as he looked over at me. 'Meaning he needs something spectacular…'newly discovered evidence,' like that, right?' Hauser said.

'Right,' I agreed.

'So how come this 'signature' stuff wouldn't do the job for him?'

'According to this person, the one I spoke to, Fortunato subpoenaed the whole mess, files and everything. And there's no record of the red ribbons.'

'The ribbons were tied around their necks?' Hauser asked. 'You're saying some beat cop pulled them off?'

'No,' I said, watching the reporter's eyes, now steady behind the glasses. 'That couldn't be. See, the red ribbons, they were inside the bodies. Way inside. You wouldn't find them until you did the autopsy.'

'Unh,' Hauser grunted, half to himself. 'So you're saying the ME's office is in on this?'

'I'm not saying anything,' I reminded him. 'It's this cop who's saying it.'

'You know which of the MEs did the autopsies?'

'No. I don't have any of the paper. I guess I could get it. Or copies, anyway.'

'You have a read on this? A personal one?'

'No. Me, I'm clueless. Somebody's playing, but I don't even know what the game is.'

'Why me?'

'You're Morelli's legacy, right? I figure, you can check some places I can't go— I can go places you can't too. We put it all together, maybe I crack the case and you get a hot story,' I told him, playing the PI role to the hilt.

'That's all?' Hauser asked, his face a study in skepticism.

'Everything,' I promised him, back to lying.

'There's nobody you're protecting? Chips fall where they may?'

'You got it.'

'And what we know, actually know, not guess …what we know is that this guy Piersall did something to some hooker in Jersey, pleaded guilty, and he's doing a short stretch for it, right?'

'Right.'

'And he got tried for a sex murder here in the city, and he got convicted of that too?'

'Right.'

'And there was a red ribbon inside the woman who got murdered…but not inside the woman who got beat up?'

'Yeah. Nothing inside the New Jersey woman, the only red ribbon inside the New York woman, the one who died.'

'And you got a source inside NYPD that says there are two more sex murders…?'

'Right.'

'With red ribbons inside both of them…?'

'Right.'

'But that the ribbons don't show up on the autopsies?'

'That's it.'

'So either the cop's lying, or someone removed the ribbons…?'

I just shrugged, waiting.

Hauser pretended to be thinking it over, but I knew it was no contest— he was a bloodhound, and he had the scent. Finally, he looked over at me. 'I'll take a look,' he said. 'No promises.'

'It's a deal,' I said.

The first step was to check my back–trail. Belinda hadn't been wired— I could tell that as much by the dialogue as the body search— you could replay our whole conversation for a grand jury and I'd still be as safe as a Kennedy in Massachusetts. But it didn't ring true, none of it. Mojo Mary offers me sex after she got paid. And Belinda doesn't even flash a smile when it might have cut her some slack. I never worry about what side I'm on. It's always the same one— mine. Sometimes that side's in the middle…and what I care about then is staying out of the crossfire.

The obvious answer was a crew of cops, working me for those mad–dog homicides in the Bronx a couple of years ago. But they didn't have a thing on me. And I haven't carried a gun since.

Don't misunderstand. I'm not crazy— I know the guns didn't do the killing— I know it was me. The guns just made it easy. So easy. Shooting, it's a different head than stabbing, especially with a high–tech piece like the Glock I used that time, so silky smooth it was like squirting death out of a hose. Close–up work, that takes a different mind. It's messier, more involved. Riskier too. The drive–by boys, it's like playing a video game to them. Not real. Electronic beeps sound in their sociopathic minds. The targets they shoot, they aren't human— they're little two– dimensional objects. You hit one just right, it falls down.

Technology changes things— the closer it gets to the street, the higher the body counts. Today, when one high–school kid bumps into another in the hall, one of them says, 'I'll see you after school.' But it's not a fistfight they're talking about. Not knives or bicycle chains either. Today, even the worst wimp can deliver a full–clip message. It's techno–magic— bang, the other guy's dead.

But why would Belinda warn me about Morales if she was working with him? Besides, I couldn't imagine Morales working with any partner but McGowan. Morales is a surly, hair–trigger straight arrow— not the kind of partner anyone in NYPD wants. A fucking thug for justice, that's Morales. I'd always figured he had everything a