help me fill in a couple details about Dread. We've got a possible suspect and you might be able to help us pin him down. Is that so hard?'
'Who ya suspect?'
Annie said, 'You know Alphonse Kincaid. Where was he the night Dread got popped?'
'Alphonse Kincaid?'
Annie nodded and Irvin was off.
Kincaid was a rival for Irvin's turf and at the time of Dread Knowledge's untimely demise he was being booked on a larceny charge. Apparently Irvin didn't know this because he took the bait, firmly placing Alphonse at the scene. In painting the lie he admitted his presence at Dread's murder. Over the next couple hours Meyers and Silvester probed his inconsistencies, agreed with Irvin and questioned him so deftly that he believed he had the detectives fooled.
When Irvin admitted he'd been packing a Walther PPK at the murder scene, the lieutenant watching with Frank murmured, 'Beautiful.'
'That your weapon?' Frank asked.
He nodded, grinning at the glass. 'That Annie. She's whipped cream with a cherry on top. But under all that sweetness?' He slapped his palms together. 'A fuckin' bear trap. Christ, I could use a couple dozen a her.'
Two hours after the Walther admission, the perp was signing a murder confession. Closing the interview door behind her, Annie danced into the squad room waving the signed paper. Frank clapped and Annie executed a low bow. She had sturdy, well-turned legs and the deep grace of her bow made Frank wonder if she was a dancer.
'You're good.'
'You're damn right I am, cookie.'
Placing a small bottle of Advil on Annie's desk, Frank said, 'Take a couple of these tonight. They'll help your neck.'
Rubbing under her hairline, Annie replied, 'Tonight, hell. I'm taking one now.' Dry swallowing a pill, she added, 'Thanks.'
'Just trying to make sure you don't call in sick on me. Want to try the cemetery again tomorrow?'
'You bet. I'll pick you up at nine.'
'Okay.'
Frank made to leave, but Annie called, 'Hey. Thanks again for the collar.'
'No sweat. It was fun.'
'You California girls got weird ideas a fun.'
CHAPTER 17
Tuesday, 11 Jan 05— East Village
Oh, yeah. We're having some fun now. Got to help Annie nail a perp today. Fucker took a swing at her when she tried to cuff him and I jammed him in the balls. Dropped like a coconut and six hours later squealed like a pig. I watched her work him in the box. Very impressive. We were on our way out to the cemetery when she saw the mope, so will try again tomorrow.
So surreal to be at the Ninth. I keep thinking I’ll see Uncle Al come around the corner, then we'll go next door to Cal's and he and dad will empty a pitcher.
I took a stab at the case folder. Way harder than I thought. This whole fucking thing's harder than I thought. You'd think after having this monkey on my back for thirty-six years Td be kind of resigned to it. Td pretty much accepted the idea that I was never going to find out who killed him. Especially after I became a cop and realized the odds of closing stranger-homicides. Eighty percent of the time there's a link between the vie and the perp that helps seal the deal, but when a stranger kills a vie a lot of time there's nowhere to go except around and around in circles. That's what I did for years after he died—mad-dogging every lowlife on the street, wondering if he was the one, waiting every day for Uncle Al to knock on the door and say, ' We got him!' And it just never happened.
Then I became a cop and had to deal with shell-shocked kids just like Td been. Had to break ugly news to wives just like my mother and after a while I tuned it all out. I learned to say and do the right things, but I didn't feel it anymore. I couldn't—it'd make me psycho to take on all that pain. So I pushed it away. And it got just as easy to push my own pain away. To drink it away and work it away. So now what? Now what do I do with it?
At first I was hooked in an abstract, professional way. “Gee, here's this thirty-six-year-old cold case and isn't this an interesting break?' Then I realized, holy fuck, this is my thirty-six- year-old case. This was me. My whole life. So Tm reading through the case fie this morning and bam! Tm ten years old again. What a pain in the ass. And just like when I was ten, I want to find this guy. I want to look him in the eye and I want to hurt him. I want to smash him. Thing is, the bastard's probably dead. I mean he was a hope-to-die junkie, right? What are the odds he's still alive? So here lam, almost four decades later, still chasing ghosts. When's it gonna end?
Maybe when I find out who's been leaving that shit for him.
Maybe not even then. I don't know. Feel like I've opened Pandora's box. Should have just left well enough alone and now it's too late to slam the lid shut. Christ. Oh, well. One day at a time, right? Done all I can do tonight. Wonder how Gail is. Td love to call her. Hell, Td love a lot of things—to catch a killer; solve a mystery for Annie; have a glass of wine with dinner; have my lover back. What I got is a warm bed and a pretty good book. Need to break down and buy some reading glasses. Damn print's swimming all over. Gotta hold the book halfway to my knees to get it into focus. Life's a bitch and then you die. Had a vie once had that tattooed across his back. Thought it was funny at the time. Now Tm wondering how much that tattoo cost.
Tm tired. Going to bed. How can I be tired? Didn't do anything all day. Maybe making up for all those lost nights. Anyway, manana, with luck.
CHAPTER 18
Buckling her seatbelt the next morning Annie informed Frank, 'I gotta stop and talk to a witness first. Make sure she's gonna be in court next week. I'll only be ten minutes.'
'Whatever.'
'Whatevuh. Listen to you. Miss Patience. Couple days ago ya had ants in ya pants. What happened?'
Frank lifted helpless hands. 'What am I gonna do? It's your case, right? We work it on your schedule, not mine. I know you got dozens more important cases to be working, so I'm glad for whatever you give me. I appreciate it.'
Annie shot Frank a dubious look. At the light she pondered, 'Thirty-six years and you're still lookin' for the mope that whacked your pops. He musta been a good guy, huh?'
Frank nodded.
'If it was my old man,' Silvester agreed, 'I'd be lookin' too. To give the mope a friggin' medal. Then to kick his ass for not shootin' the son of a bitch before he had me. My pops, he shoulda been thrown in the East River the day he was born.'
'Not so nice, huh?'
'He was an oiler, my old man. Couldn't hold down a job if you gave him a hammer and a box a nails. Drank away every paycheck he ever had. Never mind he had five kids to feed. My mother'— Annie crossed herself—'she's a saint. Raised us basically by herself. Throw in my old man and she was taking care of six kids. Sent three of us through college, workin' fourteen, sixteen hours a day. She'd come home some nights cryin', her feet hurt so bad. I'd rub 'em for her. Put liniment on 'em. I hated seein' her like that. Then she'd get a couple hours' sleep and be up before we were, making our breakfast, lunches already in little sacks she saved from work. A saint. A friggin' saint.'
Annie checked the rearview mirror, the side mirrors. She scanned through the windshield and started the visual circuit all over again.
'She still alive?'
'Yeah. She lives with my brother Anthony over to Queens. His wife's a doll, God bless her. Took my mother in like she was her own. Yours?'
'Nah. Dead a long time.'
