Footsteps of the Hawk

'Sit anywhere,' Mama said dismissively, going back to her ledger book. Anytime I come in the front door, she knows something's up. There's a button under her cash register. She pushes it and a light starts flashing back in the kitchen. A red light.

I led Belinda to one of the middle tables, staying away from my booth in the back. A waiter came out after a few minutes, silently handed us each a plastic–coated, fly–specked menu, the kind they give tourists. Mama has a lot of businesses, but selling food isn't one of them— the last thing she wants in her joint is repeat customers.

Belinda told the waiter what she wanted. He gave her a mildly hostile look, said something in Cantonese. 'They don't speak English here,' I told her. She finally pointed to the menu, ordered the #2 combination plate: pepper steak, fried rice, egg roll. The whole package cost $4.95, a bargain on the surface.

I knew what kind of bargains Mama served up, so I just ordered a plate of fried rice.

Belinda wanted a Coke— I asked for water.

The waiter left. I lit a cigarette. 'At least he seemed to understand 'coke.'' Belinda smiled.

I nodded, editing out a half–dozen stupid comments I could have made. I felt the tip of Belinda's sneaker tapping at my ankle. It didn't feel like she was playing— or that she was nervous either. I kept my face empty, put my left hand under the table. Belinda met me halfway— handed me a thick envelope of some kind. I took it from her, left it on my lap.

The waiter brought the food, slapping it down on the Formica table with sullen indifference. I checked out Belinda's combination plate. The green peppers looked soggy, the steak was a suspicious two–tone chocolate color, age–ringed like an old tree. And the fried rice they gave her didn't resemble what was on my own plate.

Belinda didn't seem to notice. 'I didn't have breakfast,' she said by way of explanation as she dug into the food. I ate my rice in silence.

'Ugh!' she said suddenly. 'This Coke is flat.'

'This water's no bargain either,' I told her.

'Why do you come here, anyway?' she asked.

'I live in a hotel,' I told her. 'No cooking facilities. Better the devil you know…'

She flashed another smile. 'It's all there,' she said quietly. 'Some of the photocopies aren't that good— I didn't have that much time.'

'I'm sure it'll be okay,' I told her.

We finished the meal at about the same time. The waiter dropped a check on the table, face–up. It came to twelve bucks and change— bogus addition is another way Mama keeps her customers from coming back. I left a five and a ten on the table. Unless Belinda had the digestive system of a goat, she was going to pay her share later on that day. As we passed by the cash register, Mama said 'Come again,' with all the passion of an embalmer.

The envelope felt heavy in my inside jacket pocket as we strolled back to the park. Belinda let her hand rest on my right forearm, her soft rounded hip occasionally bumping me as we walked. 'Are you already working on it?' she asked.

'Yeah.'

'You want to tell me— ?'

'No.'

'Okay, don't get hostile. We're on the same side, right?'

'Me, I'm doing a job,' I told her. 'We had a deal— I'm living up to my piece of it.'

'Is that a subtle way of asking for the money?'

'It'll do.'

'I don't have it,' she said. I clenched my fist so the muscles in my forearm tightened, giving her my response. 'But I'll get it,' she finished quickly. 'It has to come from…George. Like I told you, the— '

'Trust fund,' I put in, just the trace of sarcasm in my voice.

'It's true,' she said, in a pouty girl's voice. 'You can check it out for yourself.'

'What I want to check out is five thousand dollars. Like we agreed. One week, five C's, right?'

'Right. What I'm trying to tell you, if you'll just give me the chance to say something, is that I don't have it…but Fortunato does. I already spoke to him. You can go by his office anytime, pick it up yourself.'

'He's gonna leave a package for me at the receptionist's desk?'

'Stop being so mean,' she said. 'He wants to talk to you— what's so strange about that?'

'Which means I got to call him, make an appointment, all that, right?'

'Well, I guess…'

'Guess again, sister. If you think I'm gonna work this job for you on spec, you need therapy. I work the same way Fortunato does. You know how it goes: money in front, all cash, no big bills. And no refunds.'

'That's okay. I mean— '

'Here's what I mean,' I told her quietly. 'I already started this thing. And I still haven't seen any money. I'm not gonna spend a week chasing this lawyer. Call him. Tell him I'll see him today. Anytime he wants. But today, understand? I don't get the money today, I'm out of this.'

'Okay, okay, okay,' she spit out rapid–fire. 'I'll call him. You'll get the money today, I promise.'

'Not the money,' I reminded her. 'My money.'

'Fine,' she said with a sniff, taking her hand off my forearm. 'Give me an hour. I'll leave you a message.

'See you around,' I told her. I walked away, leaving her standing there. When I got as far as Worth Street, a pair of Chinese kids in matching red silk shirts under fingertip–length black leather jackets nodded an 'okay' at me. I nodded back to show them I understood— I hadn't been followed.

I went over to my office, patted Pansy for a minute, opened the back door so she could get to her roof. Then I spread the contents of Belinda's envelope out on my desk. Everything was on that cheap flimsy paper they use in government copiers. Nothing but DD5s, the Complaint Follow–up form they use to keep track of investigations. Three women. Three bodies. All cut to pieces, first stabbed to immobilize them, then sliced for fun. Sex crimes for sure, every one of the women razor–raped. The report was in Cop–Speak: 'On the above date, the undersigned Detective Oscar Wandell, Sh#99771 of the Manhattan Homicide Squad, entered the premises known as 1188 University Place Apt 9B at approx. 09:45 hours…' Whoever prepared it had just X–ed out any typos he saw— cops don't use Wite–Out.

All the homicides were south of Midtown, west of Fifth. All inside the victims' apartments. Somebody they knew? Bar pickups? No way to tell. All the victims were white. The youngest was twenty–nine, the oldest thirty–six. The killer was working a narrow band— maybe they were all targets of opportunity?

I took a yellow legal pad from the desk, started working on a chart. The dates synched with what Belinda had said: One of the murders— the woman on University Place— went down before Piersall had been popped over in Jersey. The other two came while he was being held without bail. No indication that the cops had linked the crimes in any way.

I went back to the different reports. Some were more detailed than others. One detective had really done a job— even included a diagram of the apartment's floor plan, an outline to show where the body had been found, an inventory of the victim's medicine cabinet. I checked the signature box at the bottom— I couldn't make a name out of the scrawl. But next to it was a box for the detective's name to be typed.

Morales.

Fuck!

Being in a box is bad enough— it turns to all kinds of holy hell when you don't know where the walls are. Or what they're made of. I folded up the reports, stuck them in my pocket and split.

I hit the switch for the garage door, nosed the Plymouth out onto the street behind my building. Once I got the car rolling uptown, I hit the cellular, reaching out for Hauser.

'It's me,' I said. 'Now a good time?'

'Very good,' he said. 'Come on up.'

I couldn't find an open meter, so I settled for an outdoor parking lot. The attendant looked at the Plymouth