Authors: Stephen Solomita
Good Day to Die (38 page)
“Is that good or bad?”
“The advocacy groups?”
“The fact that it won’t be like Thong.”
She brought her finger up to her face, ran it down the side of her nose. “That’s a very interesting question, Means. Nearly dying must have awakened your brain.” She sat a little straighter, assuming her official prepared-to-lecture posture. “On balance, I’d say it’s good. We won’t have to deal with ten thousand hotline tips. They didn’t help us with Kennedy, but they ate through our budget and manpower like ravenous wolves.”
“What about the FBI? They working up a profile?”
“That’s their job. Plus, the department has its own profiler now. A detective, second, named Roy Murtz. He spent a year training at Quantico.”
“And now he’s bucking for detective, first. Which he’ll get if the profile is accurate.” I pulled myself off the couch, limped to the refrigerator and retrieved a pitcher of iced tea. Bouton nodded her assent when I held it up for her inspection. “I suppose there’s no doubt in your mind that the perpetrator’s a psycho?”
“None.”
“Have you checked with Miriam Brock?” I said it with a smile as I carried glasses of tea back to the couch.
“As a matter of fact, I have. She told me to ask you a question. Her exact words were, Ask him what he found out.’”
I managed a grin at that one. “Tell her I looked deep into my heart and discovered that I’m not Mr. Softie.” I intended to leave it like that, but I couldn’t. I rambled on, despite my best intentions. “Tell her you can’t add by subtracting. You can’t find out who you are by finding out who you’re not.”
Bouton sighed. “Enough with the bullshit. It’s facts of life time. About a week ago, the New York Police Department, in all its majesty and wisdom, decided that you and it were quits forever. I spoke to the head of the unofficial committee that made this decision and persuaded him to let me offer you some options. Or, actually, two options. The first is a three-quarter disability pension. You won’t have to see any doctors or submit to periodic reevaluation. Just take the money and run. The second option is to work directly under me on this task force. We’ll be doing a lot of street work—setting up surveillance, running decoys through the various strolls, persuading prostitutes to trust us with information. It’s right up your alley.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but according to the surgeons, my alley doesn’t go anywhere for the next five weeks.”
“That’s not a problem. This perp’s not going to walk into a precinct and surrender. Plus, it’ll take us nearly that long to set up the operation. In the meantime, I’ll drop by from time and time, let you look at the paperwork, listen to what you have to say.”
I couldn’t read the expression on her face. There was eagerness to it, but something else as well. Maybe she thought she was doing me a favor. Or that she was still committed to saving me. Or that she knew she’d seriously lowered the testosterone level of the boys who run the NYPD by nabbing Thong on her own and she’d better not let this one get away.
“Sorry, Inspector, but I’ll take door number one.” I intended to let it go at that, but the crestfallen expression on her face was too genuine to ignore. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just that I’ve had enough. Something happened to me up on that mountain. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I know I can’t go back. I can’t have the course of my life determined by a few elderly cops who haven’t seen the streets in a decade. Besides, I don’t need the money.”
“What are you telling me, you’re going to buy yourself a rocking chair? Maybe take up bingo? Learn to knit socks? You’re a hunter, Means. There’s no way you can stop.”
“I didn’t say I was going to stop, Inspector. I didn’t say that at all.”
G
OTTA THANK TWO FRIENDS
of mine. Jim Appello for his hunting insights and Dake Cassen for dredging up memories of Vietnam firefights. Their help and their patience provided many of the crucial details that (hopefully) make
A Good Day to Die
authentic.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1993 by Stephen Solomita
cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
978-1-4532-9059-0
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