ain’t got him now, Detective, you ain’t never will.’
‘I disagree, Mr Blake. My colleagues and I won’t let that happen.’
‘Your colleagues and you are leaking, Detective. And a leaky vessel won’t hold water. And a leaky vessel sinks.’
Joe hung up on the dial tone and went to Rufo’s office.
‘Come in,’ said Rufo. ‘Close the door.’
‘You see the-’
‘ Post? Yeah I did. What’s going on?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Blake is really pissed. He just called saying all kinds of shit, me and Danny ratted him out, left him exposed…’
‘What did you say?’
‘I set him straight, obviously, but he didn’t want to listen.’
‘Do you know the guy who wrote this? Artie Blackwell? Why don’t you make a few calls, see if we can find out who did tip him off.’
‘Artie fucking Blackwell. I didn’t notice.’
Rufo scanned the page again. ‘Whole thing seems kinda weird to me. You think Blake likes the attention?’
‘Not if you heard him on the phone just now. The guy’s like a recluse, far as I can tell.’
‘Was he screaming for the Chief, the mayor, Larry King Live?’
‘Nah.’
‘Was he looking for anything else? Did you tell him we can have a few guys watch the house?’
‘Yeah. He wasn’t interested.’
‘OK,’ said Rufo. ‘Let me put a call in to him, see if I can’t talk him off the ledge.’
‘Danny and me are heading out,’ said Joe. ‘Surveillance on the post office.’
‘Good luck,’ said Rufo, reaching for the phone.
There was never a weekday quiet time on 21st Street. Danny and Joe were parked opposite the post office where the letters were mailed. The air conditioning was on high and the sun was beating down on the shiny black hood. Danny and Joe were quietly focused on everyone entering and leaving the building.
Suddenly, something slammed against the driver’s window. Joe turned to see the white hairy crack of someone’s ass pressed up against the glass. Outside someone else was roaring, ‘You motherfucker! You fucking motherfucker!’
A huge paper cup landed on the car, splashing strawberry milkshake up onto the windshield of Manhattan North’s new Chevy Impala.
‘Son of a bitch,’ said Danny.
Joe hammered his forearm against the glass and shouted. ‘Get away from the car.’
Danny got out the passenger side. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said to the two men.
‘None of your business,’ said the guy forcing the other one against Joe’s window. He was massively overweight and the skinny guy underneath him was feeling the pressure.
‘You’re going to suffocate him if you don’t get up off of him,’ said Danny. ‘And either way, my friend in there is going to climb out the passenger door and kill you both. Now, back away from the car.’
The overweight guy pulled his friend off the door and Joe got out.
‘What’s going on?’ said Joe. ‘That I need to get so intimately acquainted with your spotty ass?’
The skinny guy checked behind him and pulled up his jeans.
‘I… I…’ said the fat guy, gradually realizing he was dealing with two cops.
‘We don’t care,’ said Danny. ‘Long as you’re not going to hurt your friend here, we just want you to get away from our car.’
‘Sure,’ said the fat guy.
The skinny guy had a plastic Gristedes shopping bag beside him on the ground. He bent down and pulled out a liter bottle of Poland Springs and handed it to Joe.
‘For the car,’ he said, pointing at the milkshake.
‘Thank you,’ said Joe, turning to Danny.
‘This is a caring neighborhood,’ said Danny.
Joe poured the water over the hood and got rid of as much of the milkshake as he could. They got back in the car. Joe ignored the greasy smear on the driver’s window. He flicked on the wipers and a watery mix of milkshake and soap washed across the glass. As it was clearing, Danny sat forward. ‘Check this guy out,’ he said.
The man walking towards the post office was about five foot eight, in his mid-forties, dressed in pristine blue Carhartt workpants, heavy black boots and a denim shirt with two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up. He had light brown hair, thinning on top and an unremarkable face. They looked at the photos they had printed from the tape.
‘That’s our guy,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s go.’
They jumped from the car and ran. ‘Police,’ shouted Joe, flashing his badge. The man didn’t move. He stood, frozen, with his letter. Joe grabbed his wrists, yanking them hard behind his back and snapping cuffs on him.
‘Tell us your name, sir. What is your name?’
‘Stanley Frayte! My name is Stanley Frayte! What are you doing? What have I done?’
FOURTEEN
Danny pushed Stanley Frayte into the back of the car and Joe drove them silently the half mile from the post office to the 114th precinct on Astoria Boulevard. They left Stan in the interview room alone and waited outside. Joe got some gloves and opened the envelope. This time, the writing was on a cheap napkin stained with ketchup and mustard. He photocopied it and put it in a plastic bag.
‘Jesus, this one is different,’ said Joe. ‘He sounds very anxious. Listen to this: “ Oh, God. But he can find me now. If it’s a game, I don’t understand. My life is here. I’m terrified. Please, please. It can’t change. Look closer. I thought you would find him. It can’t change. I don’t know if you’re playing a game. It’s so wrong. I don’t want it to change. Ask more questions. I can’t have it taken away. Something is not right. Just not too many. You can’t find me too ”.’ He put it down. ‘Well I think we found you now, you son of a bitch.’
‘Short and sweet,’ said Danny.
‘And really scrawled,’ said Joe. ‘I mean, even more than the other one. This looks really rushed.’
‘Well I guess it’s easier to rush a napkin,’ said Danny.
‘It’s weird shit,’ said Joe.
‘Let’s see what Mr Frayte has to say,’ said Danny.
When they went back in, Stan was asleep. Danny and Joe exchanged glances; the ones who slept when they were taken in were usually the guilty ones. An innocent man would spend the time desperately trying to work out why he was there. There was often a relief in the guilty that the lie was over, the game was up and they could relax enough to snooze.
‘Mr Frayte,’ said Danny, shaking his shoulder. ‘Mr Frayte.’ He shook harder.
Stan woke up, irritated, then tried to calm himself when he saw where he was.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, rubbing his face.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ said Joe.
Stan shrugged. ‘No.’
‘Well why don’t you have a think about what you were doing when we picked you up,’ said Danny.
Stan paused. ‘Mailing a letter,’ he said.
‘Glad you seem so happy about that,’ said Danny.
‘Yes. I was mailing Mary’s letter,’ said Stan.
‘Who’s Mary?’ said Danny.
