“Evening, darling,” Carlyle said, standing to welcome her. “Still protecting our fair city?”
“It’s still standing, isn’t it?”
“It should be,” he said. “New York was built by Irishmen, after all.”
“So was the Titanic,” she said with a grin.
Carlyle winced. “That’s downright unkind, especially to a Belfast lad.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Glad to see you, too.”
“Hey, Erin,” the bartender said.
“Hey, Danny.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Shot of Glen D, straight up, and a Guinness.”
“On the way.” Danny produced a shot glass and a beer glass and filled them.
“Are you wanting to talk business?” Carlyle asked after she’d downed her Scotch and started on her beer.
She shrugged. “Not much to tell. We got a murder with a victim, but too many motives and too many suspects.”
He nodded. “Anything I can do to help, you’ve only to ask.”
“I may need to know a little more about Sewer Pipe Bianchi.”
“What about him?”
“Is he in the drug business?”
“To my knowledge, he’s in no business at all at present. He’s retired.”
“Was he ever connected with the drug trade?”
Carlyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’d heard when he was running his trucks, he used to carry more than rubbish from time to time. But that would’ve been a good twenty years ago.”
“And his son?”
“Paulie?”
“That’s him.” Erin was continually astonished at Carlyle’s encyclopedic knowledge of underworld figures.
He made a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’s strictly low-level, a petty earner. I can’t imagine he’d be doing anything you’d be interested in.”
“Even low-level guys commit murders,” she said dryly. “Especially the low-level guys.”
“I’d not heard he was involved in the muscle side of his family,” Carlyle said. “Though anything’s possible. Would you be wanting me to make inquiries?”
“If you can do it discreetly. We don’t know for sure he’s our guy.”
“Have you known me to be anything but discreet?”
She nodded, conceding the point. Then she raised a hand to get Danny’s attention again. He finished serving a couple of burly construction workers down the bar and hurried back.
“I think I’ll grab dinner,” she said. “How’s Marian’s Irish stew tonight?”
“Good as always,” he said.
“Then give me that, and another Guinness with it.”
“Grand choice for a cold February,” Carlyle said. “Forgive me if I don’t join you. I’ve an engagement later this evening, with my employer.”
“Everything okay?”
“Oh aye, he just has some matters to discuss.” Carlyle said it lightly, but Erin saw he was a little tense. She leaned closer and put a hand on his arm.
“You in trouble?”
He shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.”
“But you’re worried.”
“Darling, anyone who goes to a meeting with Evan without being at least a trifle concerned ought to have his head examined.”
Erin tried to shrug it off. Having a mobster for a boyfriend was helping her appreciate how hard it was for some guys to date a cop. It was a dangerous, stressful life, and it was never guaranteed that your loved one would come home at the end of a shift.
The stew, when it arrived, was exactly what she wanted. It was steaming hot, rich, and tasty, with fresh-baked oat rolls on the side. She dug in with pleasure. Rolf watched her eat, but didn’t lay on the begging. He was a German Shepherd K-9, not a spoiled house-pet. While she ate, she and Carlyle chatted about the Yankees’ prospects for the coming season. Mafia, Irish Mob, or NYPD, everyone in Erin’s underworld liked baseball.
“Are you doing anything later?” he asked as she mopped up the last of her stew with her roll.
“I need to get Rolf home and fed,” she said. “I could come back, if you’re not too busy.”
“The thing with Evan won’t take all evening,” he said. “Suppose you come calling at eight.”
She smiled. “Grand,” she said, mimicking his Irish accent.
At that moment, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “Damn it,” she muttered and pulled it out. “O’Reilly.”
“Webb,” the Lieutenant said. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What’s up?”
“Bianchi’s dead.”
“Dead?” she echoed, astonished. Carlyle, beside her, gave her a sharp look. She signaled to him to wait.
“Yeah. I called Patrol right after you left and asked them to keep an eye on Bianchi’s place. I got uniforms doing drive-bys on Hayward and Nicoletti’s places, too, figuring maybe we’d get lucky if someone was gunning for them. They got a call a few minutes ago, 911 from the penthouse. Poor bastard was eating his dinner and went face-down in the spaghetti.”
“You sure Paulie’s dead?”
“I’m not talking about Paulie,” Webb said. “It’s his old man, Lorenzo. First responder said it looks like a heart attack. He called me as soon as the EMTs arrived and took over CPR for him. They took him to the hospital, but I’m betting he’s DOA.”
Erin leaned against the bar. “Jesus,” she said.
“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” Webb asked.
“We don’t believe in coincidence,” she said.
“My point exactly. Meet me at Bellevue Hospital.”
“Yes, sir.” Erin hung up.
“Rain check?” Carlyle asked quietly.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“You needn’t apologize. I take it Sewer Pipe Bianchi’s gone to the great dustheap in the sky?”
She nodded.
“Foul play?” he asked.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”
* * *
Erin had spent too much time in emergency rooms while working night shifts as a Patrol officer. She was very familiar with all the ways city life maimed, sickened, and killed people. Bellevue’s ER was bustling with hospital staff, patients, and family members. She shot Webb a text from the First Avenue Atrium. He came out to meet her a few moments later.
“They lose him?” she asked.
He nodded. “Dead on arrival, like I thought. Cardiac arrest. Probably what’s going to get me in another five, ten years.” The Lieutenant absentmindedly patted his breast pocket, where he kept his smokes.
“You could buy yourself another decade if you quit with the cancer sticks,” she said.
Webb smiled. “Maybe, but it’d be ten years without nicotine. Not sure it’d be worth it. I’ll take my chances.”
“Where’ve they got Bianchi?”
“Basement.
