middleman-this Mark guy-to subcontract the money pickup?”
“It’s possible, I guess,” Parker said. “Though from all indications, our unsub seems to be more of a loner. But then again, the more I think about it, the more it sort of makes sense that maybe this was about money. He kills the first two as a calling card to prove to Hastings ’s father that he’s dealing with a stone-cold maniac. Maybe from this point, we should go on the assumption that Hastings was the real target.”
My aching neck actually made a cracking sound as I rolled it. I finally stood.
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s head back to Columbia.”
FROM THE THIRTIETH Precinct, we headed directly over to Dan Hastings’s residence hall at Columbia. Because of his disability or maybe because of his father’s connections, Dan Hastings had scored a room at the new dorm on 118th, which was otherwise reserved for law students. One of the Public Safety guys keyed us into his suite.
It was neat as a pin. There were some very expensive-looking custom furniture pieces and a closet full of clothes from stratosphere-priced Barneys. Beside the bed, we found copies of the National Review and the latest Sean Hannity book. Even Dan’s sixty-inch plasma was tuned to the Fox News Channel.
“A closet conservative at Columbia? How do you like that?” Emily said.
As we watched, a report about the Mardi Gras celebration down in New Orleans started. I remembered the forehead ashes on the bodies of Jacob Dunning and Chelsea Skinner and the references to Ash Wednesday. Even though this was starting to look like an elaborate kidnapping-for-ransom plot, I couldn’t completely shake the feeling that the three kidnappings were still related to this somehow.
Back down at the security desk, we got the cell number for Hastings ’s neighbor in the adjoining suite. We called and arranged to meet the first-year law student, Kenny Gruber, outside the gym, where he was playing basketball.
“Wheelchair or not, Dan was superpopular,” Gruber said between chugs of his Red Bull. “He had more friends than anyone I know. He tossed incredible parties. Did you speak to Galina?”
“Who’s that?” Emily said.
“His girlfriend, Galina Nesser. My God, is she hot. A Russian goddess. And a physics major. See what I mean about Dan being a unique dude? I mean, how does a guy in a wheelchair score a quality piece of ass like that?”
“A-hem,” Emily coughed exaggeratedly.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am. Forgot my manners there,” Gruber said. “You want to know more about Dan, you should talk to Galina.”
“‘Ma’am’?” Emily said as we headed for the nearest campus exit. “Do I look like a ma’am to you?”
“Of course not,” I said. “You look like a quality piece of-”
I sidestepped as Agent Parker punched me in the arm.
“What was that for?” I said, rubbing it. “I was merely going to say you look like a quality peace officer. Jeez, what did you think I was going to say?”
Chapter 54
FRANCIS X. MOONEY cursed under his breath as his taxi crested the 115th Street rise on Lenox Avenue. Down the low valley toward 125th Street and back up again on the other side, it was nothing but bumper-to-bumper red brake lights for another fifteen blocks.
He stuffed a twenty through the greasy partition’s slot and popped the door latch. He was running unbelievably late. He’d have to hoof it.
He broke into a run as he hit the sidewalk. Christ, what a day, he thought as sweat began to pour down his face. He had so many balls in the air, he could hardly keep count.
He got to 137th Street without a minute to spare. He was headed to the apartment of the death-row inmate Reginald Franklin’s mother. Even with all his plans and all his incredibly important work, his conscience wouldn’t let him forget the doomed man.
Off Lenox Avenue, down from the Harlem Hospital Center, he entered the battered front door of a narrow three-story brick tenement. The barking started the second he stepped through the open inner door and into a rancid-smelling stairwell.
No wonder Kurt from New York Heart had been reluctant to follow up on the case, he thought, listening to the unbelievably loud barks. No matter. Dogs or no dogs, someone’s life was at stake here.
The door to Mrs. Franklin’s second-floor apartment cracked open when Francis X. made the landing. He froze as an enormous dog lunged out of the apartment. It looked like a monster. It was a Presa Canario, the same breed of unbelievably vicious dog that had mauled a woman to death in San Francisco. It had a brindled coat and had to weigh close to 150 pounds.
Francis X. started breathing again only when he saw that there was a taut chain around its neck. It was being clutched by a wiry old black woman.
“I’m from New York Heart, ma’am,” Francis said quickly. “The lawyer advocacy group? I’m here about your son, Reggie. I’d like to try to help him get a stay of execution. Could you please put up your pet, ma’am?”
“You got any ID, white boy?” she said between the earsplitting barks.
Francis showed her his card from the social services agency. The dog snapped for it, almost swallowing it along with Francis’s hand.
“Okay, okay. Just a second,” the old woman finally said.
Was it him, or did the old African American woman have a smirk on her face?
“You said you was coming, too, right? Must have forgot. Sit tight till I get Chester back in the closet.”
The door shut and opened again. The sound of Chester going absolutely batshit came from the rear of the apartment.
“C’mon in, I guess,” she said, waving impatiently. “Close the damn door behind you. What did you say about Reggie?”
He followed her into the living room. Judge Judy was on the TV. The woman lay down on a couch and put up her feet. She didn’t lower the volume.
“Well? What you want?”
“I heard about Reginald’s latest denial, and I’ve gone to the liberty of writing up a request of stay to the governor. It’s all done. I just need you to sign it. Then I’ll take it to FedEx. A friend of mine from law school is in the Florida State Legislature, and though he can’t guarantee anything, he is going to personally advocate for Reggie. I think we have a real good shot.”
“I gotta pay?” Mrs. Franklin said as she motioned for him to bring her the paper.
“For my legal services? Of course not, Mrs. Franklin.”
“No, I know that,” she said as she scratched her signature. “I meant for the FedEx. That shit’s expensive.”
“No, that’s covered, too, of course.”
“Good,” she said with another little smirk. “Anything else?”
How about a fucking thank-you? Francis X. thought, unable to control his anger. Then he looked around the room. It wasn’t her fault, he realized. Abject poverty made people this way. Mrs. Franklin was a victim, like her son.
“That’s all,” Francis said. “I’d better get going. Helping you and your son is my pleasure. It’s the least I could do.”
IT WAS COMING on five when I had Emily drop me off at my apartment. The end-of-day task force meeting downtown at headquarters had been bumped up to six-thirty, and I was in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. They would be looking to blame someone for the missing five million.
Inside, I grabbed a suit fresh from the dry cleaners from the front hall closet. It’s always been a policy of mine to make sure to look my best when I’m going to be called on the carpet.
“It can’t be, but it is! Daddy’s home before dinner! Ahhhhh!” one of my daughters, Fiona, shrieked ecstatically as I appeared in the dining room doorway.
The gang, still in their school uniforms, were home from school and in the midst of getting their homework out of the way. I went around, slapping high fives and administering hugs and even a few atomic tickles where appropriate.
Many cops I’ve worked with have asked me why the hell I would want so many kids, and I’ve always had trouble explaining it. Yes, there are fights. Legendary lines for the bathroom. Clutter beyond the nightmares of professional organizers. Not to mention the expense. I envy people who can live paycheck to paycheck. But it’s moments like these, when my guys are all safe and happy and busy and together, that every bit of it is incredibly worth it, when it is pure, unabashed happiness.
The kids are simply my tribe, my pack. We gathered them together, and everything good that my wife, Maeve, and I had ever learned, we passed on to them. Not only have they taken those lessons to heart in our house-being kind to one another, being polite, being good even when they don’t feel like it-as they get older, they’ve started spreading that goodness to the world. I can’t count how many times teachers and neighbors and school parents have said to me how wonderful, polite, and thoughtful they thought my kids were.
Maeve, and now Mary Catherine, being home with them every day, could take ninety-nine percent of the credit for that. But that one percent that makes me proud of myself exceeds everything I have ever accomplished professionally, hands down.
Mary Catherine smiled up at me from where she was surrounded by a sea of blue-and-gold Catholic-school plaid.
“Mike, is it you?” she said. “Can I fix dinner?”
