Footsteps of the Hawk

fire. It's all grapevine stuff: no way there's a nationwide group of mutants united in a giant conspiracy to hijack cars. It's a moron–move all the way— you risk life in the pen for a used car. But as soon as the media names it, the twenty–four–karat dumb–fuck imbeciles have to go and do it. Starts in D.C., spreads to New York. Then over to L.A., back to Chicago, down to Miami. You ask one of those idiots why they do it, they couldn't tell you. A whole battalion of sheep, following the herd, armed and stupid.

The latest craze is so totally retarded I almost couldn't believe it when I first heard about it— now they're robbing toll booths on the bridges. The G.W., the Triborough, the Whitestone…you name it. They just drive up to the booth, stick a gun out the window, and demand the cash. Incredible. Start with armed robbery, throw in a string of other crimes, and you're risking a dozen years Upstate before you can even dream about the Parole Board. All for what? A few handfuls of change and a bunch of tokens you'd have to sell at a discount. That's why prison never changes anybody— you can convince a man to be honest, but there's no way to make him smart.

Of course, the people who collect the tolls, they're demanding the right to carry firearms. There's a pretty picture— some self–righteous loon who watched too many cop shows blazing away in the middle of rush hour.

The real answer would be to eliminate the toll collectors entirely. They could train chimps to do it, but the chimps would probably get bored and swing off the job.

You see it everywhere. Somebody says they found a syringe in their can of Pepsi, next thing you know, tampered cans are showing up all over the country. Sure. Good thing they don't make you pass an IQ test before they accept you into prison— most of the joints would be empty.

A pattern crime, one with a signature, that's custom–made for copycats. That's a fact of life in this cancer ward of a city. But who could be copying something he never heard of…?

I finished shaving, still no closer to an answer. Time to go to work. I know how to look like a lawyer. All you need is a dark pinstripe suit, a dress shirt with a monogram on the cuff, any necktie that looks expensive. The younger breed goes more for the Italian look, more silk, more slouchy— the older guys stay closer to tradition. They wear their hair different too. The older guys go for blow–dried razor–cuts— the younger ones wear their hair longer, go heavy on the gel. They both display flashy wristwatches and leather attache cases— slim ones, so they don't get confused with the 18–B guys, who have to haul files around with them. And the look is indispensable: superior, snotty, arrogant, with a distinctive weasel–tint to the eyes.

I didn't bother with any of that to go see Fortunato. He knows what I do. And I know what he is. I put on a pair of carpenter's pants over steel–toed work shoes. Then a black sweatshirt under an old leather jacket. Lots of pockets, lots of room…I didn't need an attache case.

Fortunato makes most of his scores downtown, from the pits on the first floor of Centre Street to the tower in Foley Square, but he wasn't a Baxter Street type of guy— his office was on Forty–second, between Madison and Lex.

His name was in large gilt letters, standing guard over the double doors to the office. I stepped inside, into an empty reception area. The sliding glass window to the receptionist's desk was standing open. I reached my hand in and rapped on the top of the desk. A guy in his twenties came around a corner. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tie was pulled loose from around his neck. He looked pressured.

'Can I help you?' he asked, an undercurrent of annoyance in his voice.

'I'm here to see Fortunato,' I told him. 'Name's Burke.'

He turned his back on me, walked away. He was back in a minute, said 'Come in,' and hit a buzzer to release the inner door.

'Last one on the left,' he told me.

Fortunato's office was bigger than the whole reception area, a corner spot with two exposures through large windows. He was sitting behind his desk, a kidney–shaped monster— its left lobe held three separate telephone mini–consoles— the right had a smoked–plastic stack of trays loaded with various documents. The broad expanse in the middle was empty, gleaming like it had just been polished. I walked in, took the middle of three identical leather chairs facing the desk.

'You're Burke?' he said by way of greeting.

'Yes.'

Fortunato leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He didn't ask for identification, didn't offer to shake hands. He reached into one of the plastic stacked trays, extracted a white envelope, held it in his hand for a few seconds. Then he slid it across the slick surface toward me. I caught it, pocketed it without looking inside.

'You have any questions?' he asked.

'The way I understand it, this guy was dropped behind some DNA fingerprinting, right?'

'That was one of the factors,' he said cautiously. 'There were others.'

'So what's his play on appeal? How do you get around that?'

'An appeal isn't usually about the evidence,' he said smoothly. 'It's about the law, not the facts. Let's say the police find the murder weapon in the trunk of a guy's car. But let's say it was a bad search— no warrant, no probable cause. They can't use it in court, understand?'

'Yeah, I do. But they wouldn't need a warrant to take a blood sample.'

'It's all in how you look at the evidence,' he said. 'The DNA…Wait a minute, are you saying they got DNA samples from the New York case?'

'Well…yeah, I guess so. I mean, I knew they had it in Jersey, and I thought— '

'There was no DNA taken from the body on University Place,' he said flatly.

'None at all? How could that be?'

'Look, maybe you don't have all the facts here,' he said, ticking off the points on his fingers. 'One, the DNA they got in Jersey was a tissue sample, understand? From fingernail scrapings— the woman scratched, she fought hard. There were fragments of skin under her nails. Two, the woman in New York, the one on University Place? Her fingernails were smooth, like she just had a manicure. Nothing under them at all. Three, there was no sperm in the body.'

'You telling me they found different DNA in the other bodies?'

'There were three bodies,' Fortunato said, ticking them off on his fingers, one–two–three. His manicure was perfect. 'Three murders,' he said. 'And all of them in New York. And the assault, the one in Jersey— I already explained that one, right? The woman on University Place— there was no sperm— they never made a match. The other two— the other two murders, I mean— there was no sperm either.'

'You sure that's right? No sperm at all? Sometimes, a guy isn't a secretor…'

'I know that,' he said, looking up sharply. 'No sperm, period—that's what they found. And they didn't find any in the other two, the ones that happened after he was in custody.'

'So let's say he didn't do the last two— hell, that would make sense. He was inside, right? But there's no question about the first pair.'

'One of them,' Fortunato corrected. 'The one that lived. That'll stand up, no question. But the woman on University Place, he may have been in her apartment, he may have fucked her a couple of times— hell, he admits all of that— but there's no real hard evidence that he killed her.'

'Sounds like a dead loser to me,' I said. 'What's the point? Without proof that the ME pulled the red ribbon out of the other bodies— and you gotta admit, that sounds ridiculous— you got nothing.'

Fortunato shrugged, watching my face. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'you take a case as a favor. Even if it doesn't look good. You never know what can happen…'

'Okay,' I said. It was like I'd thought— if Fortunato had a scheme, it didn't have anything to do with the law books.

He reached behind him to where a shelf was built in below the window line, brought out a small wood humidor. He reached inside, took out a long dark cigar. 'You mind?' he asked.

I shook my head. Shook it again when he turned the humidor in my direction, offering me one, He clipped the end of the cigar with a little silver guillotine, flicked a wafer–thin lighter into flame. He made a ceremony out of it, rolling the cigar in his lips, making sure it was fully lit. He finally got it going to his satisfaction, leaned back in his chair.

'You're an interesting man,' he said. 'I've heard a lot about you.'