Where's my kid, Chapman? I want to see my kid.'
Five o'clock on a Sunday morning and the Manhattan North Homicide Squad room was as quiet as the morgue. Jimmy Dylan's basso voice shattered the silence as the heavy door swung shut behind him.
'Jeez, Mr. Dylan. I got a funny feeling you're the last guy in the world he wants to talk to right now.'
Mike, Mercer, and I were chewing on the remains of egg sandwiches that Mercer had picked up at one of the greasiest spoons in all of Harlem, a block away from the station house.
'Your father used to look the other way now and then. Decent people, hardworking people-he gave them a break first time out,' Dylan said, his green eyes aflame with rage. He was about Mike's height but much stockier, with red hair and sideburns tinged with gray. 'You're a disgrace to his name.'
'Fortunately for you, Kiernan didn't fall too far from the tree.' Mike had predicted that Jimmy Dylan would show up before daybreak. Kiernan must have had second thoughts about calling one of his father's business lawyers, hoping he could skate through the ABC violations-Alcoholic Beverage Control laws-and be out of court before he was missed.
Instead, he had phoned one of his high school friends-a defense attorney-who was driving in from his vacation at an inn in Montauk, almost three hours away. But Charlie the bartender must have gotten the news to Kiernan's brothers and given them the choice of telling their father.
'Where's my boy, Chapman? What the fuck do you mean bringing him here to a homicide squad office?'
'Temper, temper, Mr. D. Can't you see there's a lady here?' Dylan's ruddy complexion deepened in color, as the flush streaked down his neck and disappeared beneath his blue and white striped oxford cloth shirt.
'I wouldn't give a damn if she was Mother Mary. Where's Kiernan?' Two uniformed cops came pounding up the staircase and pushed open the door behind Dylan. Mike got to his feet and held out his arm.
Mercer stood up next to him.
'Game's up for the moment, Mr. D. We're talking to Kiernan. You can see him when we're done.'
'He's got rights, dammit. He's got the right to see me.'
'I'm the prosecutor working with the detectives. Your son actually didn't want us to contact you. He was very firm about that. Kiernan's called a lawyer,' I said, standing behind Mercer. 'They can meet as soon as he arrives. Meanwhile, he's comfortable and having something to eat.'
Dylan took a step in my direction, wagging his finger at me. 'He's…
he's just a kid, missy. You keep me away from him and there'll be hell to pay. You'll never set your ass in a courtroom again.'
'I'm handling this, Coop, okay?' Mike gave me his most exasperated look before he turned back to Dylan. 'Trust me, Mr. D., you got no more control over where that skinny ass goes than the rest of us do.
No more threats, got it?'
'Kiernan's got rights.'
'Jeez, you sound like all the lowlife morons I take off the streets.
Everybody and his mother's got rights. Don't know what they are or how to use 'em but slap the cuffs on any scumbag around and bam! He's got rights. Kiernan may be your son but he's a grown man. Only kids that have a right to be questioned in the presence of a parent are minors, under the age of sixteen.'
'I want to be with him. I want to make sure he knows what he's doing,' Jimmy Dylan said, wiping the sweat off his neck with the cuff of his shirt. 'What's with this homicide bullshit?'
'Cool your heels for a while. We finish up with Kiernan, there'll be plenty of time to chat with you.'
Dylan grabbed Mike by the shoulder. 'Don't play God with me, Chapman. This here's my son and there's something bigger than a lawnmower chewing up my guts from the minute Junior called to tell me about this. If it's
'What problem would that be, Jimmy?' Mike brushed his hand away.
Dylan nodded in my direction. 'Where can we go to talk?'
'Right here. Right now. You think this is gonna be a secret, backroom conversation?'
'It's personal. It's confidential.'
'I got news for you. It's not confidential anymore. Even Kiernan had a few things to say about it.'
'He
The door opened again and a young man in a sweatshirt and chinos came into the room. One of the cops tried to stop him as he pulled out a business card to identify himself.
'Mr. Dylan. Frankie Shea,' he said, approaching to shake hands. 'Kiernan called you?'
'Yeah.'
'I got a stable of lawyers. I got guys who do all the licensing for me with the SLA, deal with all the nuisances and aggravation. Why the hell did he reach out for you?'
Shea lowered his voice. 'My office does a lot of-um-like violent crime stuff. My boss is on the panel for homicide assignments. Kiernan was just a little nervous about these guys who brought him in. One of you Chapman?'
'Mike Chapman, Mr. Shea. This is Detective Mercer Wallace and Alexandra Cooper, from the Manhattan DA's office.'
Shea was short and wiry, with chiseled good looks and the edgy air of a lightweight boxer.
'You holding my client?'
'Yeah. He just had some chow. He wanted to take a nap till you got here.'
'Want to tell me what this is about?'
'Sure. We'll step into the lieutenant's office.'
Dylan roared again. 'For me you had no place to talk, Chapman? You got a mouthpiece still green behind the ears-look at him-and you're going to tell him what's going on before you tell me?'
'Hey, Mr. D. He's got rights, you know what I mean?'
'Frankie, tell him I can sit in on this.'
'Sorry, Mr. Dylan,' Shea said, scratching his head to think of a way to say what he needed to without further infuriating his friend's father.
'There could, you know, be some kind of conflict down the road. I mean, if you and Kiernan-well, I just can't let you do it.' Mike and Frankie Shea spent about fifteen minutes together in Peterson's small office before coming back to us.
'You fellows want to escort Mr. Dylan downstairs to wait for a bit longer?' Mike said to the two cops. 'When Mr. Shea tells you he's ready, you'll get your shot.'
Jimmy Dylan was fuming. He stood his ground until Shea urged him to make things easier by moving along.
Kiernan had been held in an interview room down the hall. Mike and I walked Shea to the door, and as we opened it Kiernan picked his head up from the table, where it had rested next to the debris from the sandwich and soda Mercer had given him.
Shea stepped in and patted Kiernan on the back a few times, before asking us to close the door and leave.
Jimmy Dylan had gotten no farther than the top of the steps. When he heard Mike's voice, Dylan asked to come back into the room. He was sweating profusely now, and the veins in his neck looked like they were pumping up to an explosion that would blow off the top of his head.
'If this is about that whore, Chapman, just let my boy go, okay?'
'Grab a chair, Mr. D.' He waved the cops off and pointed to the door. 'Which whore would that be?'
Dylan looked over at me.
'Now's not the time to worry about Ms. Cooper's sensibilities. She knows more whores than the Queen, I promise you. Give me a name.'
'Amber Bristol.'
Mike knew as well as I did that there was little chance we would get another word out of Kiernan Dylan after Frankie Shea finished his sit-down. He would chide his friend-his client now-for having talked too much already. He would advise him to take the hit on the ABC violation and walk out of court with no other formal charges held over his head.
The kid would carry with him just the ugly label that Mike had wanted to pin on him like a scarlet letter-person of interest in a homicide investigation. Maybe that would be enough to bring someone-a witness, a cohort, a
