And at some point, Jack would need to know why
Henry Parker was lying to him.
23
Thursday
“So tell me about this Mr. Joshua.”
Curt Sheffield held a pad of paper in his hands and a small pen. The pen hovered above the pad as he waited for me to speak.
We were sitting on a bench next to each other in Madison Square Park. It was early morning, just after seven o’clock. The day was crisp and cool, and the park was crowded with couples walking their dogs and sipping coffee. I wasn’t surprised to see a line already beginning to form outside the world-famous Shake Shack. Possibly the best burgers in the city, but the kind of meal your intestines could only handle once or twice a year.
Before Curt had taken out his writing utensils, there had been a breakfast burrito that disappeared down his throat in about 1.2 seconds. His breath smelled like fried grease, but that’s not the kind of thing you tell someone you’re approaching for help. Especially when they’re armed.
“Mr. Joshua?” I said.
“Mr. Joshua? You know, from Lethal Weapon? Played by crazy-ass Gary Busey, who got his blond ass handed to him by the man from down under at the end?”
“Oh right,” I said. “I kind of stopped watching Mel
Gibson movies after the whole sugartits thing.”
“You know it’s weird. Who would have thought that between Gary Busey and Mel Gibson that Busey would turn out to be the less crazy dude.”
“So what’s with the Joshua reference?”
“Well, you said this dude you’re looking for is blond,
Mr. Joshua was blond, thought I’d give him a nickname since you don’t know who the hell he is.”
“That’s why I’m coming to you. So we can eventually call him by his real name.”
“Gotcha. One more anonymous baddie, coming up.
Like we don’t have enough to worry about right now.”
Curt spoke these words with a little more bite than I was used to. He wasn’t above bitching about his job, but there was a current underneath this that caught my attention.
“You okay, buddy?” I asked.
“Yeah, just, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. What do you mean?”
Curt shifted, blew into his hands and rubbed them together. “Department has been hit hard lately. The city’s budget’s been slashed beyond belief so the mayor could make his budget targets, and we’re taking it in the ass just like everyone else.”
“In what way?”
“Well, frankly, the city has no money.”
“Yeah, I remember the governor’s press conference where he made it seem like we were some sort of third world country outpost.”
“You wouldn’t think it, you know? That a city where they can charge fifteen bucks for a martini would go broke?”
“Tourists,” I said. “The dollar is so weak that people from pretty much all over the world can come here and buy anything basically half off. They pay it because they can, and we get stuck with the inflated prices because we have no choice.”
“The rich get richer and…you know how the rest goes,” Curt said. “But right now there are parts of the city with less cops. And less cops means less supervision, means the bad guys get emboldened.”
“But the NYPD?” I said, confused. “Isn’t that one area they don’t have a choice but to keep fully loaded?”
“They’re trying,” Curt said. “Louis Carruthers, the
Chief of Department, said the brass is looking into more funding, but it might take a little while. At the state and city level right now, they have less money than Michael
Jackson. A lack of money means the city is cutting back on pretty much everything that the government picks up the tab on. Overtime, patrol routes, even new recruits.
Starting pay for a first-year police officer is just below your average hot dog vendor.”
“Which is just above that of a journalist,” I said with a smile.
“Yeah, at least you get those fancy suit jackets with elbow pads.”
“I’ve never heard anybody claim to be jealous over those.”
“You can never guess where fashion trends go. If tomorrow Kanye shows up with one of those tweed jackets, five million kids will show up at Diesel begging for them. So what do you got for me on this guy besides hair color?” Curt said.
“First off, you need to know that anything you do could come back and bite you in the ass.”
“Isn’t that why we’re friends?” Curt said. “I don’t have enough problems at work or at home, so I come to you to satisfy my daily craving for emotional and physical trauma.”
“Your breath is terrible,” I said.
“Point proven,” Curt said.
“Seriously. It smells like you ate a hot dog, then burped up that hot dog, then fried the burped-up hot dog, ate it, and burped it up again.”
Curt stared at me. “I think my stomach just threw up inside of itself.”
“Then my job here is done.”
“You’re a laugh riot. Go on. Tell me what you know about this dude.”
“I was outside of Brett Kaiser’s building right before it turned into something out of Dante’s Inferno. The doorman told me a guy with blond hair came and went at freaky hours.”
“You told me this. That’s not a hell of a lot to go on.”
“I’m not done. You know Paulina Cole, right?”
“Of course. Hot piece of ass who works at that dirt rag and has no love lost for you. Am I close?”
“Enough for a shave.”
“I don’t know her personally, but I’ve heard some of the guys talking about her. She doesn’t have a lot of friends in the department. Ever since she wrote that article accusing NYPD recruits of being underqualified and unmotivated. Things like that tend to rub cops the wrong way. Rumor has it they won’t give her scoops anymore because of the crap she’s written, so she has her lackeys covering the crime beat act as spies for her.”
“Yeah, well, that’s part of the problem. Turns out she was kidnapped a few days ago, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure the guy who did it is the same one who char-172
Jason Pinter broiled Brett Kaiser. Her description of him matched the same one I was given by Kaiser’s doorman to a T. Blond, late thirties or early forties, muscular.”
“Does she know the same guy is a suspect in the Kaiser murder?” Curt said.
“No. You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“So I’m looking for a blond guy, about six-one or sixtwo, two hundred ten pounds or so if he’s well built.”
“Sounds like a ballpark to work in.”
“Right. That ballpark narrows it down to about ten thousand men in New York.”
“There’s one more thing,” I said. “Paulina said he’s involved in drugs.”
“Drugs.”
“Yeah.”
“Care to elaborate on that?”
“That’s all I know. Let’s just say she was a little secretive on that part.”
“So we have a blond guy. Somewhere between six feet and six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds, who
