Fiddlers

pulled back into a ponytail fastened with a ribbon the color of the pants. Lipstick, no other makeup.

‘You’re early,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’

‘Sorry to break in on you this way.’

‘Hey, you gave warning,’ she said, and led him into the living room. It was decorated in what he guessed was Danish modern, all blond woods and nubby fabrics. A big mirror on the wall behind the couch made the room appear to be twice its size. ‘Did you really want tea?’ she asked. ‘Or would you prefer a drink?’

‘I’m still on duty,’ he said.

‘So tea it is,’ she said, and went to where a kettle was already steaming on the stove. He watched as she prepared two cups. Outside, he could hear the street sounds of summer. She brought the tea and a tray of cookies to where he was sitting on the couch. In late afternoon sunlight, they sipped their tea and nibbled at their cookies.

‘What I wanted to know,’ he said, putting down his cup, ‘when I was here earlier, you mentioned a drive-by shooting

‘Yes.’

‘Said Helen Reilly’s husband was killed coming down the steps from a train station…”

‘Yes, the elevated station on Cooper and Duane.’

‘Cooper and Duane. That would make it the Nine-Seven Precinct.’

‘If you say so,’ Paula said, and smiled. ‘Is the tea all right?’

‘Delicious,’ he said, and picked up his cup again.

‘You said some questions had come up…”

‘Yes. Well. Actually, that was the question. I wanted to know in which precinct the incident had occurred. The shooting. The murder, actually.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes.’

‘So I guess it was easier to find out by coming here to ask me,’ Paula said. ‘Instead of going to the computer or whatever.’

‘Well, then I wouldn’t have got the tea and cookies.’

‘I suppose not. Is that why you came here, Detective Hawes? For the tea and cookies?’

‘No, I came here to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.’

‘I see.’

‘Would you?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

* * * *

Dutch Schneider was the Nine-Seven detective who’d caught the drive-by shooting three years ago. His precinct, and his squadroom, were in the shadow of the elevated structure that carried emerging subway trains from the city proper out here to Calm’s Point. Every few minutes, a train would rumble past the open squadroom windows, reminding both detectives of the city’s constant rattle and roar, causing Schneider to pause in his recitation and roll his eyes heavenward.

‘At first, we thought Reilly himself was the target,’ he told Hawes. ‘Guy coming down the steps from the train platform, all at once a car zooms by, and bango, he’s dead on the sidewalk? We figured the perp was somebody familiar with his habits, knew he was taking the train to the city that day, knew when he’d be coming back, was waiting to ambush him. Matter of fact, for a while we considered the wife herself a suspect. Thought maybe she’d hired somebody to ace the husband when he got off the train…’

‘How’d that turn out?’ Hawes asked.

‘Loved him to death. Second marriage for her, the first was a lemon. Couldn’t have been happier than she was with this guy, no reason at all to want him dead. We got off that kick right away.’

‘When did you figure it for a gang drive-by?’

‘Not for a while, actually. I mean, this wasn’t a bunch of street hoods sitting on a front stoop, flaunting their colors, rival gang drives by, opens fire. The shooting wasn’t directed at anything but the steps coming down from the platform. And Reilly was the only vie. So we concentrated on the usual suspects for a long time.’

‘Who would they be?’

‘Guys he used to work with… this was an old fart, you understand, seventy-eight years old, retired. Other guys he played poker with. Nobody had any reason to kill him. Then, out of the blue-’

Then, out of the blue, a train rattled by on the tracks outside the squadroom windows. Schneider rolled his eyes, tapped his fingers impatiently on the desktop. Hawes was suddenly grateful for the relative peace and quiet of his own turf.

‘Where was I?’ Schneider asked.

‘Out of the blue,’ Hawes prompted.

‘Out of the blue, this little Spanish girl comes up the squadroom, tells us somebody’s gonna kill her boyfriend. Turns out this is right out of West Side Story, only it’s two Puerto Rican gangs, not one white, one Spanish. But the same Romeo-Juliet plot, you understand? The girl’s boyfriend is a member of the Royals and her brother is a member of the Hearts. Her brother warned her to break it off with him, she refused, so now they’re gonna kill him. Well, who gives a shit? Why bother us with this gang shit? Figure it out for yourselves, okay? One less Royal on earth, gee what a pity. But, oh ho,’ Schneider said, and glanced toward the windows, as if expecting another interruption from the rapid- transit system.

‘Oh ho,’ he said again, when he realized the coast was clear, ‘she then tells us that six months earlier, they tried to get her boyfriend when he was coming home from the city…’

‘And this tied in with the Reilly shooting, right?’

‘Same date, as it turned out, February twelfth, blood all over the snow. Her boyfriend was on the same train as Reilly, coming down the same steps as Reilly when he caught it. The boyfriend ran like hell cause he knew it was him they were after.’

‘Case closed.’

‘I wish,’ Schneider said. ‘Thirty-six guys in that gang, all of them with alibis a mile long. We hassled them from here to Sunday, but we couldn’t break any of them. Whoever shot Reilly is still out there someplace.’

‘Bearing a grudge maybe?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘For being hassled?’

‘This was three years ago. They’re all either dead or in jail by now.’

‘You think one of them might have gone after Reilly’s widow? Out of spite?’

‘I’d put nothing past these jack-off gangs. But why would they bother going after an old lady? They’re all into dealing drugs nowadays, these gangs. They got no time for settling petty grievances.’

Drugs again. Two drug busts already in this case.

‘Who’s your gang guy up here?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to talk to some of these kids.’

* * * *

Kids, they weren’t.

Talkative, they weren’t, either.

‘Why should I talk to you?’ Everado Rodriguez told Hawes. ‘I done something wrong in your precinck? I done something wrong in this city? What is it I done wrong, you mine tellin me, you come all the way out here to Calm’s Point seekin me?’

‘I want to know if the name Martin Reilly means anything to you,’ Hawes said.

‘Oh, Jesus, that shit again?’ Everado said. ‘The cops from the Nine-Seven were all over us about that, three years ago. We’re back to that again?’

It was seven o’clock that Saturday night, and they were in the basement room the Hearts euphemistically called their ‘clubhouse.’ Everado was the so-called president of the so-called club. He was perhaps twenty-four years old, wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a blue bandanna Hawes assumed to be the gang’s colors. There wasn’t too much gang activity in the Eight-Seven these days; he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this twerp.