Choice of Evil

He? “So it wasn’t Crystal Beth who—?”

“No. The way they have it doped, she was hit by cover fire. The target was the guy who got the special delivery.”

“If all they have is a piece of the slug, how could they know it was a—?”

“They have the weapon,” Wolfe said softly. “It was in the car.”

“The. . . what?”

“The car. The drive-by car. It was a Lincoln Town Car. You know, the kind most of the limo services use. . . not a stretch, a regular sedan. Black. Tinted windows. About as noticeable as a taxicab in that part of town. . . real good choice.”

“Where’d they find—?”

“In a long-term parking garage on Roosevelt Island. A couple of days later. The way they figure it, the driver must have caught the Triborough and hooked back through Queens, come into the garage from the other side of the river. That’s probably where they had the switch car waiting.”

“So the murder weapon was in the car. Don’t tell me they left a bullet in it?”

“Oh, they found a slug, all right. In the back of the head of the guy in the passenger seat. The driver got the same dose. . . only from a different piece. A regular.22 short. The techs found that one too.”

“And when they vacuumed. . .?”

“Nothing. Both of the dead men in the front seat had sheets, but no trace of whoever was in the back. And the weapons were all purchased legally. One in Florida, the other two in Georgia. About three years apart. Straw- man buys. Local drunks or crackheads. All you need is proof of residence there. Then a quick run up Handgun Highway. No way to figure out how many times they changed hands since.”

“The dead guys. Their sheets said. . . what?”

“They were both made men,” she said. “Family guys.”

“So somebody wanted the guy in the park and. . .”

“Contracted it out, sure. That’s the way they’re playing it. That’s why not a word of this has leaked. It’s bad enough that this Homo Erectus maniac is slaughtering people. Now it looks like it all started over. . . something else. It wasn’t a fag-bashing after all.”

“Christ.”

“Yes. But that’s not all. What’s got everyone spooked isn’t the hit. It’s the word about the hit man.”

“I don’t get—”

“Yeah, you do,” she said flatly. “Who else does that but Wesley? Who else can shoot like that? Who else kills a bunch of people just to get one? Who else leaves the weapon right there when he’s finished? And maybe the boss wanted those other guys gone anyway. It’s just like Wesley to get paid for three jobs and hit the trifecta.”

“Wesley’s dead,” I said.

“Is he?”

“You going for that handjob too?” I asked her.

“They never found a body.”

“Hey! He was inside a school, all right? Surrounded by half the cops in the world. Locals, mounties, feds. A couple of hundred people died in the blast. Remember? Not just the dynamite he had in his own hand; the truck he had parked right outside—the one with the poison gas. It was like a bomb hit the place.”

“He could have gotten out. . . .”

“Where? They had helicopters in the air. They checked for tunnels under the place and they had them all blocked. They kept a cordon around the site for weeks picking through the corpses. So they didn’t find his. . . whatever would have been left of him anyway. . . . So what?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know about the note. . . the one you turned over. But I also know you’re holding something back. You have to know something more about it than that note he left.”

“Even if I did,” I said, hedging, “what difference would it make? It might get me out of a beef sometime, if I could add something to what they already know. But alive? Forget it. There’s no way.”

“Listen to me,” Wolfe said, stepping so close her face went out of focus, voice dropping below a whisper. “The feds have a man inside. They turned him a long time ago. It’s a RICO thing. They’re looking for the whole Family. Probably got more than five years invested already. And this guy, he heard the boss set it up. On the phone. A pay phone—there was no tap in place. But. . . Burke, he was talking to Wesley. That’s who he made the deal with. Wesley’s not dead. Or he’s back, if you want to believe that. But one thing’s for sure—he’s making people dead. And that’s what Wesley does. That’s all he does.”

“There’s got to be some other—”

“That’s what they say too,” Wolfe told me. “After all, they ‘solved’ that mass murder up in Riverdale, right? Laid it on Wesley. That’s their story, and they’re sticking to it. But now. . .”

“And you think I—?”

“I don’t know what to think. I know you go back with him. I know he. . . did things with you, I’m not sure what. But I’ll tell you what they know down at One Police Plaza, Burke. When you turned in that suicide note of his, it may have gotten you off the hook for some stuff. They know where you got it. . . just not how. Or when. They don’t want you for any of these fag-basher killings. They don’t believe it was you, not for a minute.”

“They think it’s. . . Wesley? That’s nuts.”

“Because he’s dead?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll go you one better. Because how would he get paid? Where’s the money? Wesley never killed anyone for fun in his life.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should put your ear a little closer to the ground. If you did, you’d hear something real interesting.”

“Like what?”

“Like a body-count fund.”

“Are you for real? What kind of—?”

“All I know is they call him the Trustee.”

“Like in prison? One of those guys who—?”

“No. Like from an estate. The word is, some crazy rich old queen left a fortune in cash to this ‘Trustee,’ all right? And his only instructions were he wanted fag-bashers murdered. So the Trustee reached out to Wesley and. . .”

“Offered him so much a head? Change your medication.”

“You explain it,” she challenged. “And you may have to. . . in court. Watch your back, Mr. Askew.”

“Huh?”

“Your new ID,” she said, handing over the briefcase. “If your. . . partner is back in town, or back from the dead, or whatever. . . it doesn’t matter. The way they’re thinking, they already know who’s doing all this. And you’re the only connect. Don’t worry. You’re about as bust-proof as a diplomat. For now. They’re letting you dangle. Understand?”

“Yeah. But I—”

“Don’t even tell me,” Wolfe said, voice cold. “If it’s not what it looks like, I’ll have plenty of time to apologize.”

I just stood there while she got back in her car, her face grim. As the Audi pulled away, the Rottweiler looked at me like he was just waiting his turn.

“From where I sit, I like the fit,” the Prof said. “You want that kind of fun, Wesley’s the man to get it done.”

“He’s dead, Prof,” I said. Tired of saying it.

“What do we know, bro? I mean, we wasn’t there. All we saw was a bunch of stuff on TV. Explosions. That green cloud of whatever crap he let loose. Wesley, he was never like. . . people, you know? There’s an old hoodoo. . . ‘Reaching Back,’ they call it. But even if you believe in that stuff, someone has to want you to come back. And they have to bring one to get one too.”

“What’s that mean?”