out getting his body bronzed or something. With his face so distorted by scar tissue, it was difficult to tell if the ex- pug recognized me or not. I didn’t leave it to chance.
“Hey, remember me? You tried putting your right hand through my rib cage a few nights ago before your boy took batting practice on my knees.”
“About that, John, he-”
“I don’t really give a shit, Rocky. Let’s just say you owe me one. Get John. I’ll be waiting at the bar.” “Here.”
He gave me my ten dollars back.
I didn’t have long to wait. People are usually prompt on payday, and John Heaton was no exception. Unfortunately for him, he was going to get a bonus he hadn’t counted on. When he sat down next to me, I said nothing, but continued nursing my beer. I removed two white envelopes from my jacket pocket and slid them along the bar to Heaton.
“One’s for you, the other’s for Domino.”
He had the good taste and good sense not to count it out in the open. Apparently, he still hadn’t picked up today’s papers. I ordered him a drink.
“Can’t drink while I’m on,” he said, but not in time to stop the barmaid from fixing his whiskey.
“Ever stop you while you were on the job?”
“No, but this ain’t the job. Here they’re fuckin’ serious about it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Heaton,” I said as the barmaid placed his scotch down in front of him. “They’ll make an exception today.”
He didn’t touch it. “Oh yeah, and why is that?”
“Because the guy who murdered Moira just signed a full confession.”
He froze in place. Only his face moved, and involuntarily, streams of emotions washing over his bloated red countenance so quickly I couldn’t keep up. Finally, it was just a blank mask. “What?”
“You read the papers?”
“Not since-no, not in a long time.”
“Drink your drink, John.”
He did, in a gulp. I tapped the bar in front of him. The barmaid poured another. He drank. After the third, he was primed.
“It’s ugly, huh?”
“Very.”
“Tell me.”
I didn’t argue with him. He’d find out anyway. He was pretty stoic about it until I described how Alfonseca had disposed of Moira’s body in pieces off City Island. That he couldn’t bear and slammed his forehead down full force onto the bar. It split open like the skin of an overripe fruit, blood pouring down into his eyes, over his cheeks, swallowing up his tears. I told the barmaid to get Rocky. There was little doubt in my mind he’d know how to stem the flow of blood. As for the rest of it, there was nothing anyone could do to help.
Chapter Ten
I’d been to Mets games less well attended than this press conference. It seemed every media outlet in the free world had sent at least one reporter and cameraman. Some of the local TV stations sent both their police beat reporter and their political analyst. Pete Hamill and Jimmy Breslin were there too. To say there was a bit of a carnival atmosphere in the crowd would have been an understatement. On its face, this was about Moira Heaton and Ivan Alfonseca. Believing that was like believing Christ’s last supper was about the matzo.
This was many things, a sort of political smorgasbord with something for everyone. Even with all the elected officials in the room, there was enough free press and publicity to go around. Mostly, however, this was about Steven Brightman, and everyone understood as much. About five minutes after the jewelry was confirmed as having belonged to Moira, word began leaking out about Steven Brightman’s innocence. This so-called press conference was to be a coming-out party, a resurrection of sorts, the kickoff of his campaign for higher office, whatever office that might be. Maybe it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t blame Brightman.
There weren’t quite as many people onstage as in the audience. Fishbein stood at the podium, nearly buried behind a sea of microphones. Directly behind him were the mayor, the police commissioner, and Brightman and his wife. I stood in the next row between Larry McDonald, Robert Gloria, both resplendent in full-dress blues, Wit, Pete Parson, and a sad-faced Joe Spivack. Geary, as you might expect, stood in the wings. Also in the wings were John Heaton, forehead stitched and bandaged, his estranged wife, and his son. The wife and son had been flown up overnight on Geary’s private jet. Domino was nowhere in sight.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DA said, tapping the mikes, “good morning. I’m going to make a brief statement to be followed by a few words from some of the people who share the platform with me today. Then we’ll take your questions.
“This is a day of mixed feelings. On a personal level, it is a profoundly sad day, while professionally, it is a uniquely satisfying one,” Fishbein continued. “As many of your organizations have today reported, this office, in league with the NYPD, the Department of Corrections, and a team of private investigators, has finally determined the whereabouts of Moira Heaton, the young woman who, at the time of her disappearance nineteen months ago, was working as an intern for State Senator Brightman.
“Unfortunately, it is my somber duty to inform you that Miss Heaton is deceased. Our hearts and deepest sympathies go out to her family and friends. And to spare her family any further grief, I shall, at this time, refrain from discussing the details surrounding her untimely death. A written statement will be released later today. What I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt is that State Senator Steven Brightman has been completely and utterly exonerated in this matter. I can state this with such confidence because the man who abducted and subsequently murdered Miss Heaton, Ivan Alfonseca, popularly known as Ivan the Terrible, is in our custody and has signed a full confession which he himself dictated to his lawyer.”
The mayor and police commissioner followed the DA. They said much the same thing as Fishbein, blowing their own horns in the process. It was just amazing. As I recall, neither man was at that meeting in Joe Spivack’s office. I guess I must’ve missed something. But now it was time for the main event as Steven Brightman, his wife standing just over his shoulder, stepped to the podium. First a buzz rippled through the press corps, and then an expectant silence. He was not smiling, nor was he morose, again displaying his talent for understanding the moment.
“There is nothing for me to rejoice in today,” he began. “As is often the case in life, when one dark cloud moves on, it is replaced by another, more sinister cloud. I would gladly take back the whispers and suspicions, the backbiting and silent accusations, which have plagued me over the last nineteen months in exchange for better news for the Heaton family. Alas, no such deal can be struck, and the Heaton family is left only to grieve.
“The rest of us, however, can take this opportunity,
“I have one brief thing to say in conclusion,” Brightman continued. “Many people have already taken credit for getting to the bottom of this matter. Some rightly so.” He smiled, turning and nodding at the mayor, the police commissioner, and the DA. That got a laugh from the press. “But there is one man sharing this platform with the rest of us who truly deserves the credit. He is the man who assembled the team, the man who put together the facts that led ultimately to Mr. Alfonseca’s admission of guilt. He is a former member of the NYPD and a licensed private investigator.” He turned fully around. “Moe, will you come up here please? Moses Prager, ladies and gentlemen.”
