“But he didn’t do anything to me.”
“Tell her, Nan. The kid cost her at least a manicure,” Mike said.
“Twelve dollars, Mike. Still only a misdemeanor.” Nan pinched my shoulders.
My knuckles were bloody from scraping the sidewalk, and several of my nails had broken.
“Here’s what he said, when the cops let him open his mouth. It’s all about his grandfather.”
“I like that old guy,” Mike said.
“The trustees have decided to fire Mr. Audley,” I said. “It looks bad for them that Amos has been letting Luther hang out there. By hindsight, people in the office claim that stuff is missing — cash, some of the silver objects that would bring in a fraction of their worth being sold on the street, books and hymnals.”
“Then keep a leash on Luther,” Mercer said. “Why punish Gramps?”
“He’s the one person in the world that Luther cares about. The one human being who’s always looked out for him. The kid knows that and feels bad about it. That’s why he was trying to catch up with me. That’s all he wanted.”
“He’s not familiar with the concept of office hours?”
“Right, Mike. With his batting average, you think he’s just going to show up for an appointment with an assistant district attorney? Not likely to be his comfort zone.”
“What does he expect you to do?”
“Talk to Wilbur Gaskin. The kid’s not wrong. Luther says Mr. Gaskin’s behind the whole idea. He feels personally embarrassed about what happened in front of us with him and his friends. Gaskin thinks he needs to send a signal to everyone at the church.”
“Ain’t nothing sacred if Amos Audley’s expendable,” Mercer said. “That’ll have everybody shaking in their boots.”
“So you called, didn’t you? That’s why you were so late getting over here.”
“I was late because I had to make the cops understand why I wasn’t pressing charges.”
“But I’ll bet you called Wilbur Gaskin. Fess up, Coop.”
“Sure, I tried to call him.”
“Without discussing the idea with your partners, huh?” Mike gestured at Nan and Mercer. “Without letting us weigh in on whether it was a good plan.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Chapman. I didn’t reach him.”
“Nobody home?”
“Remember, Wilbur Gaskin spends every other weekend in Atlanta? Keeps a place there, where he grew up. Likes to go down to play golf.”
“I’m not surprised, Coop. You scared him out of church on us, just when we could have used his help. Now Amos Audley’s job is on the line, and you’ve run Gaskin right out of town.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GUIDO Lentini cracked the door open. “Everything okay with you, Alexandra?”
“We’re good. What’s with Scully?” It was almost seven thirty.
“Everybody in the room is getting antsy. All I know is that the first dep called to say the mayor has info for Scully, for a change. He asked me to keep all you cats herded in the big office. You ready to join us?”
“Couple more calls, Guido,” Mike said. He had already convinced the pair of 9th Precinct cops to let Luther Audley go and void his arrest for third-degree assault.
“I want you to be in there when Scully shows, okay?”
The office of the DCPI was one of the most high-tech communications hubs in the department. Lentini’s phone bank could auto-dial any bigwig in the city, and the flat screens that hung on three of the walls could call up everything from local breaking news to on-the-ground action in Afghanistan or Israel, Abu Dhabi or Singapore.
“Give me a heads-up when he’s crossing the street, will you?” Mike asked, one hand on the television remote.
I stood up and walked into the restroom to splash water on my face. When I came out, Mike pressed the power button and five of the large screens lit up with Alex Trebek’s face.
“Get ready, Nan. I expect you to ante up,” Mike said.
“What makes this okay, Mike?” she asked. “That the body isn’t actually in the room with us? Or do you just like being the poster boy for bad taste?”
“You know a body wouldn’t stop him,” Mercer said. “Never has done.”
“That’s right,” Trebek said. “Tonight’s Final
All three studio contestants laughed and shook their heads.
“Fifty bucks, ladies and gent. We’re bound to know this,” Mike said. “All crime, all the time.”
“Twenty-five,” Nan said. “I’ve got those little mouths to feed at home.”
Trebek stepped back to reveal the answer. “ ‘ Singer convicted of pinching buttocks of a woman in the Central Park Zoo.’ ”
“I’m going inside. I have no idea.”
“Don’t throw in the towel, blondie. You know every Chester Molester in history.”
“Who is Frank Sinatra?”
“Are you crazy? If you were a player on the show, ninety-nine percent of the viewing public would be throwing rocks at the telly. Ol’ Blue Eyes never had to pinch.”
I was only a bit ahead of the accountant, who guessed Keith Richards. Nan and Mercer — like the other two contestants — threw up their hands without an answer.
“I’m in a cultural wasteland with you mooks. Who was Enrico Caruso?” Mike cheered for himself when Trebek confirmed the question. “In 1906. The great tenor was arrested by the NYPD for ass-grabbing a society dame in the monkey house.”
“You learned that at the Academy?” Mercer asked. “I must have been dozing.”
“Nah. My dad loved Caruso. But Aunt Eunice wouldn’t let him listen to the records ’cause of what he did. She thought he was a perv. Convicted too. He testified at his trial that the monkey did it. How’s that for a new low?”
Mike was gathering up his papers to shift to the conference room adjoining Scully’s office.
“Fits with your orangutan theory,” Mercer said. “Let’s move out, okay?”
Nan and I left first. We had long ago ceased to be surprised by the black humor of homicide work. These were detectives who faced down the darkest corners of the human condition every day and found relief — like small air pockets for someone gasping for breath — in the most unlikely manner.
The group waiting for Scully had grown considerably in number. Lieutenant Peterson led the Manhattan North contingent, chatting with his South counterpart while the men — and one woman homicide cop — stood in clusters around the long table. Somehow, Manny Chirico was still wide-eyed and alert. I recognized guys from Anti-Crime and the Harbor Unit, Highway Patrol and Housing. The only people not invited seemed to be the Counter-Terrorism teams.
Lentini stepped out to make a call, clutching his ever-present clipboard. He was back in a minute. “Take your seats, men. The commissioner’s in the elevator.”
You could almost smell the testosterone in the room as the city’s best murder investigators staked out places and readied their notepads.
Sadly for the victims, not all homicides are created equal. The choice of religious institutions as this killer’s backdrop and tortured young women as his prey ratcheted up the level of interest and outrage of this select team. Gang members, junkies, and the great unwashed dead of the metropolitan area would be shuffled to back burners until this perp was caught.
“Thanks for your patience, men.” Keith Scully entered the room with his first dep and a second man carrying
