Footsteps of the Hawk (11 page)

"He knows you're a cop, right? Didn't he think you were working him for more evidence?"

"We got that straight in front. I told him, if he wanted me to really look into it, he'd have to do something for me first—take a lie–detector test."

"You got that done? Inside?"

"Sure. His lawyer got a court order. And you know what? He
passed.
With flying colors, the examiner said. He's the wrong man. And the
right
man, he's still out there."

"Go to the papers," I suggested. "Hell, go to one of those trash–TV shows. They'd be glad to jump on it. Nothing they like better than a man falsely accused of rape…unless it's an innocent child–molester."

"I tried. They don't care…One of them told me psychopaths pass polygraphs all the time. Without the red–ribbon evidence, it's nothing."

"Look, I…"

"I want
you
to do it," she said, her eyes aiming somewhere above mine, stitching a line of rivets across my forehead. "Find the killer. That's the only way George's going to get out. I talked to a couple of private eyes. They both said they weren't going to take on NYPD—they were on the job once themselves. And they know what would happen. Those guys live on leaks—they go ahead on something like this, the faucets all get turned off, you understand? You know how hard it is to work without a friend on the force? You need somebody to run a plate for you, check a file, all that stuff. You work PI too, right? Off the books, I know. No license, all that. But I can fix it. Fortunato says anyone can work as a PI if they're working for a lawyer. He says it would be okay for you to be working for him. He'd cover for you and everything."

"It's not my kind of thing," I told her.

"There's money. Real money. George has a trust fund. He's got nothing to spend it on now."

"I'm not interested," I told her in a door–closing voice.

She sat back in her chair. Straightened her spine, took a breath. "Are you interested in what Morales is trying to set you up for?" she asked.

"I don't know any Morales," I shot back, lying with the natural smoothness of a man who learned it—
had
to learn it—when I was just a little kid.

"Yes you do," she said. "I know you do–and I know he's got plans…plans for you."

"Still doesn't ring a bell," I told her. "And what's in it for you, anyway?"

"An innocent man—"

"I look that pure fucking stupid to you?" I interrupted. "You want me to buy this 'justice' bullshit, you can tell your story walking."

She took a deep breath. My eyes never left her face. "It's…personal, okay?"

"I don't give discounts for
personal,
" I told her. "You don't want to tell me the truth, you take the risk, understand?"

"Just take a look," she said, leaning forward. "One look, okay? Let me show you what I've got. You'll get paid. Just for that, you'll get paid. And if you do it, win or lose, you'll have a friend on the force, how's that?"

A friend on the force—where had I heard that before?

"I'll ask around," I told her. "No promises. One week. A whole week. And I don't leave the city, understand? Just cover the old tracks down here. Costs you five grand. Say Yes or say No."

"Yes!" she breathed at me, so happy she almost popped right out of the kimono.

A
fter Belinda left, I sat and smoked a sociable cigarette with Immaculata, waiting to hear where the lady cop went once she left the building. I wasn't worried about her marking the loft—I'd never be there again in life.

"What did you make of her?" I asked Mac. It wasn't a pass–the–time question—Immaculata had been a superb therapist for years…and a survival expert since the day she was born.

"There's something…
coarse
about her," Mac said. "I can't put my finger on it. Not yet, anyway—I'd have to see her a few more times."

"Coarse…?"

"Yes. That's the only word I can think of. When I…examined her, she acted…I don't know…flirtatious? When my finger was inside her, she…responded in some way.

"Maybe she's gay?"

"I don't think so. Even if she was, the circumstances were so clinical, you wouldn't think…It was more as though she was trying to test me in some way."

"She's a cop. You know how they always look for a weak spot—it's their nature."

"That wasn't it. I can't tell you more than what I said. It's too…muddled. But she has that one–note–off thing—you know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Something else. It may mean nothing, but…"

"What?"

"In the pocket of her jeans, she had a little flat metal box. Like aspirin used to come in, remember?"

"Sure. And…?"

"And inside the box, there was maybe three inches of clear Scotch tape. With a paper tab on the end. You know what that could be?"

"A fingerprint kit," I told Mac. "You never took the gloves off around her?"

"Never. And I never took my eyes off her either."

"Good."

"Are you going to—?"

"I don't know yet," I lied, segueing into "How's Flower?" to get her off the subject.

"She is quite wonderful," Mac said formally. "She loves school, especially art—she draws all the time. She can imitate Max's chop perfectly."

"I know. I saw her do it once, when Max brought her over to the restaurant."

"Yes. Mama is already concerned about a proper match for her when she is old enough."

"That's jumping the gun a bit, isn't it?"

"Oh yes." She smiled. "But you know how Mama is—she thinks Flower will need a
dowry
,can you imagine?"

"Sure. Mama thinks you can't get anywhere unless you pay your way. I guess she's not so wrong, when you think about it."

The phone in my pocket buzzed. I pulled the flap open, said "Go."

"The cop didn't make no stops." The Prof's voice. Belinda had gone straight back to where she'd started from, alone.

"Can I drive you back over to your place?" I asked Mac. "I'll stay awhile," she said. "There's another way out of here—through the basement. And I want to change first. If she has people around, they won't see anything."

"Thank you," I said, bowing slightly.

"You are my brother," she replied.

H
alfway through talking to Belinda, I knew who I needed for this one. Morelli was off the set now. After years and years at ground zero, he'd finally hit it big. A hardcore reporter from the old school, his copy was always gold, and he's been covering the Mob for so long they probably ask
him
for advice. Anyway, he wrote a book and it caught fire. He's been on the Holy Coast for a while now, tending the harvest.

But a pro like Morelli doesn't move on until he's trained some new recruits. J. P. Hauser was his choice. I remember when Morelli first told me about him.

"I ask him, go over and see this guy, supposed to be an informant, staying in some rat–trap over in Times Square," Morelli told me. "This guy, his story is that he's got a bad ticker, so he wants to make his peace with God, give me all the inside dope on a muscle operation Ciapietro's crew is running out at the airport. So I tell J.P., get me everything, all right?" Morelli smiled, taking a sip of his drink. Years ago, it used to be Cutty Sark and Lucky Strikes. Now it's red wine and he doesn't smoke at all. What the hell, at least he doesn't drink mineral water and pay his bills over a modem.

"Okay, so, a few hours later, I get this frantic call from the informant. He's screaming blue murder. Said JP goes up there, tosses the place worse than any parole officer ever did. JP, he takes the serial number from this guy's clock radio, looks at the labels in his coat, checks his shoe size. Then he whips out one of those blood–pressure things…you know, the kind you slip over your finger? Wants to see if this guy's
really
got a bad heart, you ever hear anything like that? The kid doesn't just take notes, he's got a tape recorder. And
another
tape recorder in his pocket too, just in case. Makes the guy go over his story a dozen times, out of sequence, backwards, you know, the whole bit. The
federales
could take lessons from old JP I mean, the man takes it
all.
He's a fucking vacuum cleaner, you understand? He's gonna pull the dirt out until they pull his plug. I fucking
love
this kid."

I worked with Hauser myself a couple of times since Morelli split. Any twit with a street thesaurus and an active imagination can write a newspaper column—but Hauser, if he's got a God, it's The Facts. And I learned this much about him too: he's got a set on him so big that, if you added one more and painted them gold, you could hang them over a pawnshop.

Early on a Sunday morning, I figure Hauser's probably at home. He lives on Central Park West, somewhere in the Nineties. But he keeps a dump of an office in the garment district. Doesn't matter where he is—I know how his phone system works.

I drove up Eighth Avenue until I found a parking space a few blocks south of Port Authority. I slid in and punched the number into the cellular.

"You have reached the voice mail of J. P. Hauser," the tape said. "Leave a number and a time to call. I'll get back to you."

I waited for the beep, hit 333 on my phone, waited again. Another beep–tone. This time I hit 49. Waited again while the phone rang.

"Burke?" Hauser's voice came through.

"I got something," I told him. "Meet you…where?"

"How about my office? Give me half an…no, make it forty–five minutes, okay?"

"You got it," I said, and cut the connection.

T
hat's one of the beauties of cellular phones—you call from where you're supposed to meet someone, you're already there—no time for the other guy to set up a welcoming committee. Not that I distrusted Hauser, but if I let my old habits die hard, the same thing could happen to me.

I was at the curb when I spotted Hauser through the windshield. He's medium height, with reddish–brown hair and a trim beard to match, but it was his walk that drew my eyes. He was coming fast, like he always does. You stop to smell the roses in this neighborhood, you'll need a stomach pump.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, fell into step with Hauser. He used his own key to open the outside door—the security guard doesn't work weekends. Not a big loss either. One time I came to see Hauser during the week, signed the register "Deputy Dog. The guard never looked at it. Never looked at my face either.

We went up in the freight elevator, stopped at the fourth floor. Hauser unlocked his office and we both went inside. He walked around turning things on. As the screen on his computer was blinking into life, he pulled a couple of sheets of thermal paper out of his fax machine, glanced at them once, tossed them in a wire basket on his desk. He sat back in an old green leather swivel chair behind his desk, tipped his hat back on his head, said, "What's the story?"

To Hauser, that's the meaning of life.

I moved some files off the couch onto the floor and took a seat. Lit a smoke. Hauser didn't move, didn't reach for a notebook, didn't do anything. Okay, I called the meeting—it was my move.

"You know about a guy called George Piersall?" I asked.

"Sex killer," Hauser replied in his level newsman's voice. "He pleaded guilty to some kind of sex crime over in Jersey, then they charged him with a homicide in the Village. He came back to court here for that one. Rolled the dice, drew the max. So?"

"You follow the trial?"

"No. When it comes to rape, there's always the same three defenses: one, it never happened; two, she consented; three: SODDI. What's the big deal?"

SODDI. Some Other Dude Did It, That's a Legal Aid expression, but I figured Hauser could have pulled it from anywhere. It's Top of the Charts on Riker's Island—number one with a full clip of bullets.

"I'm not arguing about the Jersey one," I told him. "That's a closed coffin. But when it comes to the murder on University Place, I got someone who says Piersall's innocent."

Hauser raised an eyebrow, a classier version of a sneer, but I plunged ahead. "Not 'legally' innocent," I said, making little quote marks with my fingers, "innocent for real. This person says there was a signature to the murder…to
three
murders. A red ribbon."

"So there's a signature…Why couldn't it be
Piersall's
signature?"

"For the one on University Place, I guess it could have been. But I said
three
murders, not one. And this person says the other two happened
since
Piersall's been locked down. Same MO. Same signature."

"What's the punch line?" Hauser asked, leaning forward.

"The punch line is a two–parter," I told him. "One, the cops never released that piece of info, so it can't be a copycat. Two, the cops working the open cases, they're not looking
backward
, see? If they drop someone for the new crimes, it isn't gonna do Piersall any good."

"This…'person' of yours…how reliable are they?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you this much: the person is a cop. A detective, on the job right now."

"What's their interest in this?"

"Personal. At least I think so—I wouldn't swear to it."

"If
you
wouldn't swear to it, it has to be pretty shaky."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, giving him a half–smile to show I wasn't taking offense. "The question is…are you interested?"

"What's in it for me?" he asked. An honest man's question in our part of the world.

"The usual, I guess. Whatever you reporter guys usually want. Exclusive this, exclusive that…you know."

"Will this…'person' talk to me? Even off the record?"

"Sure. I can make that a condition. Only I don't need to tell them what you do, okay? I can just say you're working with me."

"No," Hauser said. "It has to be straight up—the truth from the beginning. If they want to spring this Piersall, they have to know the media could be a help."

"Maybe. But they wouldn't just want a lot of noise made, you understand? It'd have to be the real thing."