build computer systems out of thin air, could design corporate Web sites and security systems as easily as he buttered a bagel. The last Ray heard, his boy was making nearly a hundred grand a year. He was married with two kids. Ray hadn't seen them in a decade.
Ray himself was born with a different set of skills.
And in a cruel irony, it was that skill set that led Ray to spend the majority of his twenties shuffling from prison to prison. He was a born criminal. Burglar, fighter. Age had sapped much of his brawn. No way that Parker kid would have had the upper hand when Ray had his juices flowing, when his fists were like unstoppable pistons.
Now, in his late fifties, Ray was holding on to his fighting memories the way a jilted lover holds on to his, afraid of what would become of him when he realized the man he used to be was slipping away. Lives like Ray's didn't have second acts.
He thought about his time in Attica. Somehow the worst and best years of his life. They'd made him what he had become, but he wasn't sure if the pain and sacrifice were
Jason Pinter worth it. He thought about that day back in '71, when his fellow prisoners had finally risen up against the guards, who'd tortured them for so long. Ray remembered watching Dog Day Afternoon as a young man, just a few years after he got loose. He remembered the feeling of pride in his gut when Pacino delivered that electrifying speech. It was simply incredible, like a candle being lit in his stomach, working its way through him until his whole body was warm. He'd seen that in person. He'd been there.
Everyone watched that flick and got that vicarious thrill of what it was like to make a stand. Ray had been there.
He'd made that stand.
When Vince came back from the bathroom, the red welt above his eye was shining like a Christmas bulb. The younger man slid into the booth across from Ray, went right back to work on his ham, eggs and sausage links. Ray watched Vince eat for a bit, the man shoveling food into his yawning mouth like it was Thanksgiving and he didn't have a care in the world.
'Eat enough of that, it'll kill you before a bullet does.'
Vince smiled as he gnawed on a link. 'Best to go out having fun,' he said.
'You know, as dumb as we were,' Ray said, 'things could have gone worse the other night. Much worse.'
'Sure could have,' Vince said, a forkful of dripping egg sliding back onto his plate. 'What d'you think would have happened if the cops had come before we'd taken care of the place?'
Vince stopped chewing. Put the fork down. 'We would have been in a world of shit. Years wasted,' Ray said.
Vince nodded as if he'd figured out the right answer on a multiple-choice test.
'Not really wasted. I mean, it's been fun, right? We've made money.'
'You know we're not doing this for money, for our health,' Ray said. 'This isn't some two-bit scam we're pulling. There are lives at stake.'
Vince laughed. 'You mean like Petrovsky,' he said with a goofy smile.
'No,' Ray seethed. 'Not fucking Petrovsky. Lives that matter. Petrovsky was a degenerate. He was a means to an end. And we have to protect that end, you hear me?'
'I hear you.'
Ray lowered his voice. 'I'll be talking to our friend later. We need to make sure everything is sealed up on our end. No doubt they'll find out that house was registered in my name. I'll play the 'woe is me' card, but let it end there. There isn't enough evidence in that house of anything. I gave it a once-through before we lit the match.
Now I'm not too worried about the Hobbs police. If anything they're doing a good job protecting what we've created. But that Parker reporter, we can't give him anything more to latch onto. The New York media gets hold of this, it goes national. Nobody gives two shits about a poor kid in a poor city.'
'I hear you, Ray. Geez, it's not like I don't know this already.'
'Fucking Parker,' Ray said. 'Never been so stupid in my life. Ten years ago, no way that kid gets the jump on me. Never used to underestimate folks. All of a sudden
Parker can ID me and probably you. His word against mine, and I've already spoken to our friend who's good with tools who'll claim I was working late that night. So here's what happens. If it even looks like this guy might throw a wrench into things, we don't wait for him to fall into our lap. We take him out. And the girl if necessary.
No more cigarettes, no more nicey-nice. Quick, simple, and they disappear.'
'Like those kids we nabbed,' Vince said, satisfied.
'No. Not like those kids. Parker and Davies have to stay gone.'
31
Manhattan's 19th Precinct was located on Sixty-Seventh
Street between Lexington and Third Avenue. I'd only been there once, just a month or so after I'd arrived in New York.
It was to report a lost or possibly stolen cell phone. I'd filled out a form with my information, handed it to the cop behind the front desk, and that was the last I ever heard about it. Probably for the best. The NYPD has more important crimes to worry about than who took my Nokia.
Curt had worked at the 19th going on three years. I knew he was well respected within the department, one of those up-and-comers that are a rare breed in that they're both clean-cut enough to stick on a recruiting poster, but hardworking and intuitive enough to gain the respect of the rank and file.
It was this respect that I was counting on as Amanda and I entered the precinct. The majority of cops had no love lost for me, and despite being vindicated many still considered me responsible for the death of one of their own. The irony was that even though the department loved
Curt's image, he couldn't have cared less. That's the only reason he agreed to bring me into his precinct. It wouldn't win him any friends, but it would help uncover the truth.
The precinct was up a short flight of stairs. It had a red brick facade and an arched entryway, bracketed by two green lamps, above which hung a yellow banner that read
'Thank you for your support.' The banner was bookended by two images: the American flag and the badge of the NYPD.
Curt led Amanda and me through the precinct, though not nearly as fast as I would have liked. I could feel eyeballs boring holes through me as we snaked through the corridors, and knew that many of these men had worked with, probably known, John Fredrickson. A few years back, I defended two people Fredrickson was beating to death, and in the struggle the man's gun went off, killing him. I didn't know he was a cop, and his death was the result of choices made long before I came along. Yet perception was reality, and the feeling was if I hadn't stuck my nose in, he'd still be alive.
'Just this way,' Curt said. We followed him down the hall into a row of cubicles, each one set up with large, likely obsolete computers. We entered a larger cubicle which was set up in a U-shape, two computers at either end. The walls were covered with crime-scene photos, mug shots, business cards. Curt pulled up a pair of chairs, then sat in a larger one. He shifted around a few times, then leaned forward and scratched his ass.
'That's lovely,' Amanda said.
'Hey, if you can convince Chief Carruthers to spend an extra nickel on chairs that don't make your ass feel like it's the wrong side of a Velcro strip, you'd be spared seeing illicit activities such as these.'
'Is it really that bad?' I asked.
'Man, come around here during lunchtime when the detectives are all eating at their desks. You'd think a family
of porcupines must have made a nest in every seat. Like a messed-up orchestra, all scratching at the time same.'
I said, 'Think I'll file that under 'visual imagery I hope to file away and never see again.' So what is this
