Dancer in the Flames (2 page)

Boots drew his arms over his chest, but didn’t respond. Wakefield’s knuckleball was dancing out of the strike zone and Mark Teixeira, the Yankee’s first baseman, was flailing away. It came as no surprise when he struck out on the fourth pitch.

‘Could we get back to Angie?’ Drago asked. ‘The game’s liable to go on for another two hours.’

‘Angie’s been dead for more than three weeks. She’ll keep.’

‘That’s pretty hard, Boots. It’s not like we’re talkin’ about a stranger. You grew up with Angie and you might wanna consider her last hours.’

‘Right, her last hours. How do you figure they went? What do ya think happened to Angie?’ Boots let his eyes dart from the screen to Drago, then back to the screen. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said as Alex Rodriguez stepped to the plate, ‘I’m listenin’.’

Drago rocked back and forth for a moment before responding. ‘This kinda pervert, Boots, he oughta be shot down like a dog. Forget the handcuffs, forget the lawyers. Shoot him down. Leave him to rot where he falls.’

‘Yeah,’ Boots finally said, ‘but what do you think actually happened? Was she on her way someplace? Did he drag her out of the house without your mom noticing? And where did he take her? And why did he hang on to the body for two days? And why didn’t she put up a fight? I mean, Angie never backed away from anyone, not that I ever noticed. Meanwhile, she doesn’t have a bruise on her body.’

‘What if he had a gun? You put a gun to someone’s head, they tend to get very docile.’

‘And then what?’

‘He forces her into a car and takes her wherever.’

‘And who does the drivin’?’

Drago thought this over for a moment, then said, ‘It’d make more sense if there was two of them.’

‘Yeah, that’s possible, but what I’m thinkin’, it’s most likely she was killed by someone who knew her. A scumbag who lives in the neighborhood. Somebody who could take her by surprise.’

Tim Wakefield finally made a mistake on the fifth pitch he threw to Alex Rodriguez. His knuckleball failed to knuckle and the ball rolled over the outside half of the plate, waist-high, at seventy miles an hour. A few seconds later, it came to rest in the center-field seats, five hundred feet away.

Boots jumped up and did a little dance. ‘Patience,’ he told Drago as he spun around. ‘That’s what it’s all about. That’s the lesson here. A-Rod took four straight pitches, didn’t move the bat an inch. That’s because he knows that hitters are always overmatched. They gotta wait for the pitcher to make a mistake. Hitters hit mistakes.’

‘Yeah? What about Vladimir Guerrero? He hits whatever’s thrown up there.’

‘Fuck Vladimir Guerrero.’

‘And what about Alfonso Soriano?’

‘Fuck him, too.’

Littlewood retrieved his Tic Tacs, shoveled a few into his mouth and crunched down. At the same time, he inhaled deeply, taking the smoky air down into his lungs. ‘So, who do you think it could have been?’ he asked as Nick Swisher stepped up to the plate.

Again, Drago took his time, sucking thoughtfully on his cigarette while he regarded the detective. ‘How about one of the freaks down the fuckin’ block,’ he finally asked.

Drago was referring to a bohemian enclave centered around the subway stop at Bedford Avenue and North Seventh Street, but the cop wasn’t buying. ‘Angie hated those people,’ Boots said. ‘She was strictly old school when it came to preserving her neighborhood. If she asked me, which she didn’t, I would’ve told her the truth. The neighborhood moved out to the burbs thirty years ago. There’s nothin’ left to preserve.’

Boots continued to stare at the television as Wakefield threw one knuckleball after another to Nick Swisher. As usual, Swisher’s attitude was intense. When he swung, as he did on three of the five pitches thrown to him, his bat tore across the plate as though reaching into another dimension. Fortunately for the Red Sox, ball and bat never came within a foot of each other and Swisher slammed his bat into the dirt when he finally struck out to end the inning. The camera lingered on his features for a moment, then cut to the Yankee’s ace reliever, Mariano Rivera, as he trotted across the outfield. Up a run, the Yankees were going with their best.

Boots watched Drago grind the stub of his cigarette into an aluminum ashtray stamped into the shape of a mermaid. His eyes lingered on the butt for a moment before he spoke.

‘What we’re thinkin’ now,’ he told Frankie Drago, ‘is that Angie’s dump site was staged. We’re not thinkin’ her killer was sexually motivated.’

‘You’re sure?’ Drago asked.

Littlewood’s grin was as quick as A-Rod’s bat, here and gone, a blur. ‘First thing is the cause of death, which I’m surprised you didn’t ask me about sooner. Most times, the family asks right away. They wanna know how their loved one died.’

With Boots staring straight into his eyes, Drago had to struggle for words. He could smell the sour stink of his own sweat as it wafted up from his crotch and his armpits. He knew that Boots smelled it, too.

‘So,’ he asked, his voice weaker than he would have liked, ‘you gonna tell me or not?’

‘Blunt force trauma to the back of her head. See, that’s not the way sexual predators kill. I know because I checked with this profiler who works downtown. Stabbing and strangulation, those are the most common methods. True, you also find thrill killers who batter the faces of their victims, but Angie’s face was untouched.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Drago interrupted, ‘didn’t you tell me she had a rope around her neck?’

‘Yeah, I did. But it was put there after she was dead. Likewise for the ligatures on her wrists. That’s what I meant when I said the scene was staged.’

D
rago lit another cigarette and immediately felt better when Boots looked away. He told himself to take the advice he’d given Boots a few minutes before. Calm down. Relax.

‘You spent the last twenty minutes tellin’ me what didn’t happen,’ he finally said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what
did
happen. So we’ll both know.’

Boots glanced at the television as the Red Sox lead-off hitter, Dustin Pedroia, approached the plate. ‘I think the perp grabbed Angie by the hair,’ he said, ‘then slammed her head into a concrete wall or a concrete floor. Probably once, but no more than twice. I think the killing was impulsive and I think he wished he could take it back afterward.’

Pedroia was batting from the right side against the right-handed Rivera. Strictly old school, he was a dirty-uniform second baseman with a tendency to hit clutch home runs even though he was by far the smallest player on the field.

‘I hate this guy,’ Boots said. ‘He doesn’t give an inch.’

‘Boots . . .’

‘Hang on, Frankie.’

Rivera’s first two pitches, both cutters, started in the center of the strike zone, then broke to the outside, clipping the front corner of the plate. Pedroia took both and both were called strikes. Rivera came inside with his third pitch, uncorking a head-high fastball that put the little second baseman on his back.

Littlewood turned away in disgust. ‘So, what were you sayin’, Frankie?’

‘Nothin’. I don’t know what to say. I’m kinda stunned.’

‘OK, then let me ask you this. You remember I told you the killer hung on to Angie’s body for two days, right? And I asked why he’d do something like that? I mean, if it wasn’t a sex killing?’

‘Yeah?’

‘So now I’m askin’ you again. Why did he keep the body for two days?’

‘How am I supposed to know?’

‘Don’t get your balls in an uproar. I’m just askin’ what you think might’ve happened. I’m askin’ you to put it together. Your sister’s killed in a moment of rage by someone who knows her. After the deed is done, he stashes her body for a couple of days, then dumps her in the woods in Prospect Park. Why do you think he waited?’ Boots turned his attention back to the game. ‘Don’t worry,’ he advised, ‘I’m listenin’ to every word.’

‘All right,’ Drago said as Pedroia took a practice swing, ‘you know what I’m thinkin’? I’m thinkin’ Angie had a lover, somebody in the neighborhood. You remember the way she carried on about loose morals, like she thought the sky was fallin’ when Janet Jackson showed her tit at the Super Bowl? Well, if Angie was doin’ the nasty out of wedlock, she woulda definitely kept it to herself.’

Boots made a little gimme gesture with his hand. ‘Go on. Why would Angie’s lover hold on to her body for two days?’

Drago began to speak as Rivera threw his next pitch, a high fastball that Pedroia took. The count was now two balls and two strikes.

‘Ya gotta figure like this, Boots. If Angie had a boyfriend, he wasn’t no mover and shaker. He had to be an ordinary guy. Remember, you said he killed Angie in a moment of rage, which I could understand, Angie havin’ such a big mouth. But that means he didn’t have a plan goin’ in. So, what can he do? He’s not a killer. He can’t get on the phone, call in a disposal expert like in that movie. But he’s gotta do somethin’, right? And he’s gotta do it pretty quick. Then he hears there’s gonna be a blizzard in a couple of days and he figures the snow will cover her up.’

‘And what happens when the snow melts, like it finally did?’

Drago stared at the side of Littlewood’s head for a moment, then laid his hands on the arms of the chair and began to rock back and forth. ‘That’s why he made it look like a sex crime. He probably thought her body would be in bad shape and you wouldn’t be able to tell what really happened.’

‘Pretty good, Frankie. Credit where credit is due.’ Boots nodded approval. ‘And it mighta happened exactly that way, except for one little thing. Angie didn’t have a lover.’

Drago’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. ‘You’re positive?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘How . . .’

‘How can I be positive?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Because Angie was a virgin when she died. Because she never had a lover in her life.’

Mariano Rivera’s fourth pitch took a sharp break to the outside about twenty feet away from the plate. Well back on his heels after two inside pitches, the best Pedroia could do was flick the bat out there and pray for contact, a prayer that would certainly have gone unanswered if the pitch had been perfect. But the ball traveled across several inches of the plate and Pedroia managed to catch it on the end of the bat, lifting a soft flare that sailed over the head of a leaping Derek Jeter. A moment later, Pedroia was standing on first base and the Boston fans were again on their feet.

‘Did you see that?’ Boots slammed his fist into his palm. ‘The little prick couldn’t hit that pitch again if his fuckin’ life depended on it.’

‘Boots . . .’

‘What?’

‘Can we talk about this for a minute?’

‘Talk about what?’

‘Angie.’

‘Frankie, there’s nothing to say. We’re gettin’ a search warrant for the house. The Crime Scene Unit will be here in an hour.’

‘For my house?’

‘Yeah, the whole house, includin’ your mother’s apartment. The ME recovered concrete dust and paint chips from Angie’s wound. If we match that paint to paint on a surface in this house, you’re gonna have a lot of explainin’ to do. Unless, of course, you wanna pin it on your mom.’

Unable to contain himself, Drago rocked forward until his bulk was centered over his knees, then pushed himself to his feet. Boots paid the bookie no mind, his attention returning to the game. For the next several minutes, while Drago loomed, unmoving, above him, Boots watched Rivera obliterate Adrian Gonzalez on four pitches, the last a borderline, chest-high fastball that the umpire, Dan Eddings, called a strike.

‘One out,’ Littlewood said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Fuck you, Boots. I don’t give a damn about the game and neither do you.’

Littlewood’s eyes widened and he smiled. ‘You pissed off, Frankie?’

‘Yeah, now that you mention it. If you wanted to make an accusation, you should’ve done it up front. It’s not like we’re strangers.’

‘OK, you’re right. I’ve been fuckin’ with your head. But look at it from my point of view. You’ve been lyin’ to me from day one, you and your mother both, and I’ve been runnin’ around in circles when I could’ve been solvin’ crimes. No more, though. This is where all the circles intersect. We’re not only gonna find that paint, we’re gonna find traces of blood and tissue. I don’t care if you cleaned up with bleach.’

With his teammate safe in the dugout, Kevin Youkilis stepped to the plate. All hustle and determination, Youkilis was the kind of player Boots most feared, a guy who personified the scruffy, working-class image Red Sox players cultivated.

‘Here’s another one,’ Boots said, ‘who don’t give an inch.’

Rivera’s first pitch was a cutter that missed the strike zone by a foot. Though Youkilis leaned across the plate, he didn’t offer. Rivera’s second pitch was a thigh-high fastball over the outer third of the plate – a gift. Youkilis jumped on it, but made a grave error when he tried to pull the ball into left field. The pitch was too far outside and his weight was too far back on his heels. Inevitably, he topped a weak grounder to Derek Jeter, who did everything right. He charged the ball, caught it gently in the web of his glove and shoveled it over to the second baseman. Already spinning toward first, Robinson Cano leaped high in the air to avoid the sliding Pedroia as he uncorked a perfect throw. Ball and runner arrived at first virtually at the same time, but the umpire didn’t hesitate. His arms traced a wide arc away from his body. Kevin Youkilis was now on first base.

Boots watched the replays in disbelief, replays from every angle that clearly showed the ball in the first baseman’s glove while Youkilis’s foot was above the bag. Meanwhile, it was tough shit. Baseball had no instant replay rule and the umpire’s call stood, despite Joe Girardi’s passionate argument.

‘I got a bad feelin’ here,’ Boots announced as the Red Sox catcher, Kelly Shoppach, settled into the batter’s box. ‘Like, what’s next? Rivera pitched great, but these scumbags don’t give up.’

Boots glanced up at Frankie Drago who stood above him, hands balled into fists, jaw rigid, nostrils flared. ‘You got somethin’ you wanna say, Frankie?’

‘I don’t want my mother hassled.’ Drago managed to put a little menace in his tone, but the detective only turned back to the television.