Inherit the Dead (21 page)

Home? He lived in that shabby fifth-floor walk-up, had for years now, but home?

Get out and move, that’s what it was all about.

Well, not quite all. Sometimes it was about sitting still, but that
was only with Nicky. As it would be later today, when they ensconced themselves at that overpriced café in Brooklyn Heights that she liked so much and she told him, between bites of burger and spoonfuls of hot fudge sundae, what her past couple of weeks had been like.

He couldn’t wait.

Meanwhile, though, he had work.

That’s what it was: it was work. Angel’s face—a face he’d never seen except in a photo—drifted into his mind and lodged there. He told himself, as he walked, slurping coffee, skirting puddles, that this was normal; this was the way he always worked. He told himself that it had been this way even in his cop days, that he’d fixate on a suspect, on a victim, who’d haunt him and who he’d find he couldn’t shake. He crumpled his coffee cup and tossed it into a trash can on top of other sodden garbage.

He didn’t believe a word he was saying.

He threaded his way along the sidewalk, occasionally passing one of his well-heeled neighbors, more often a member of the army that served them: nannies, maids, dog walkers, delivery guys. The well-heeled neighbors took cabs on days like this.

Turning right at the corner of Sixty-seventh and Lex, Perry pulled up his collar again and tied Nicky’s scarf around his neck, took a breath, and trotted up the sidewalk. He was early for his eight a.m. appointment, but he knew Henry would be early, too—not waiting for Perry, just getting a start on his work. Slick with February rain, the 19th Precinct again loomed before him. He stopped, not quite ready to go in, and surveyed the majestic old building for the umpteenth time—a delaying tactic, his looking at the decorative brickwork, elaborate cornice, old-fashioned wood windows. At least, majestic and old was what it looked like. Behind the landmark
facade, which had been supported like a stage set during the building’s reconstruction—which he’d lived through—the 19th was totally new: concrete, vinyl, fluorescent lights. Perry wondered if there was such a thing as a reverse metaphor, because the NYPD itself worked the other way. Every few years, new policies and new procedures made it look like the department was starting fresh. Inside, not a damn thing ever changed.

Enough delays.

The sergeant at the desk was too young to be from Perry’s day. Perry braced himself anyway, but the sergeant didn’t react when Perry stated his name and his business, just handed him a card.

“You’ll need this. Watson left it for you.”

“Right,” said Perry.

The sergeant nodded to the stairs, and said, “Squad room, second floor.” Perry knew that—both that the detectives occupied the second floor, and that Henry would be up there, waiting for him. He took another breath—he’d learned that in a yoga class Nicky had dragged him to: to breathe deeply whenever his heart started pounding—and headed up. The concrete stairs in the concrete block staircase hadn’t actually gotten steeper or longer over the past five years, he was sure of it.

It only seemed that way.

He swiped the card to get onto the second floor then pushed his way though the heavy steel door into the squad room. Three of the guys sitting around inside were nodding acquaintances of Perry’s, though he couldn’t have dredged up their names. Not that any of them nodded. They just followed him with their eyes as he crossed the room to Henry’s desk. Perry wished he remembered who at least one of them was, then he could give him a hearty, “Hi, Joe!” and watch him crap his pants. Just the idea that people might know you knew Perry Christo was enough to give a cop nightmares.

Unless the cop was Henry Watson. “Hey, Perry,” Henry grunted, tipping his chair forward and standing, sticking out his hand.

As they shook, Perry felt eyes slip from him as the other detectives scuttled back to their work. Except for Mr. Donald Duck tie, who walked in and gave Perry a sneer then sagged behind his desk and started typing. Perry returned the sneer.

“Damn,” Henry said. He looked Perry up and down and scowled. If Henry hadn’t been born scowling, then he’d been the only kid in history whose features actually did freeze when his mother warned him not to make that face. “You look like crap, buddy. You get any sleep since I saw you?”

“Not much. Been driving back and forth to the Hamptons. Exhausting.”

Watson nodded and looked down.

“Shit, and you’re still wearing the old dress uniform shoes. What the hell did you do to them?”

Perry shrugged. “Been wearing them around. And it’s been raining, you notice? But why the hell not? Don’t have much other use for them.”

Henry gave him a laser look, then dropped himself into his desk chair. It groaned under the load.

“How many of those things do you go through in the average year?” Perry asked, sitting opposite.

“Ignore it, it’s just looking for attention. So, really, how’re you doing?”

“I’m vertical. You manage to get me anything?”

Another brief stare from Henry; then he grunted and opened a file folder. Perry had asked the favor only yesterday, but the folder was already creased, bore two coffee rings, and was smudged from the only writing instrument Henry ever used: a blunt pencil.

“I got your girl,” Henry answered. Perry’s heart leaped ridiculously,
but before he could say anything, Henry went on, “At least, I got her Visa card. She bought an LIRR ticket into Penn Station and paid for a taxi in la-di-da East Hampton to get to the train.”

“Or someone did.”

“Yeah, okay, someone did.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Perry considered. “Could be good. What about the phone? I know you don’t have a warrant, so whatever you were—”

“Who the hell needs a warrant?”

Perry blinked. “For the phone?”

“You PIs, whaddaya know? I guess it’s because you just break the law all the time. It’s a cell phone.” To Perry’s blank look, he said, “Things’ve changed since your day, buddy.”

“No shit.”

“Mostly for the worse, but sometimes for the better. They clarified all kinds of crap about cell phones. I need a warrant to listen in on a conversation, but not to dump the phone. Or, assuming it has a GPS, to find it.”

“I know all that, but—”

“Like I said: I got your girl. Or”—forestalling Perry’s question—“besides her Visa card, I also got her phone. Last phone call she made was to Brooklyn.”

“Or someone made.”

“Yeah, someone made. You okay?”

Perry nodded. He couldn’t explain, to Henry or to himself, the chill that had just passed through him. Maybe it was the words
last phone call
. Just because Perry had traced a call to Angel’s phone, it didn’t mean Angel had made it.

It didn’t mean Angel was alive. Nothing they had found so far could be said to mean Angel was alive.

Perry shook his head, shook off the chill. “Who’s the call to?” he asked.

“One Athena Williams.”

“Who is she?”

“Some damn model citizen with no record. Law on that hasn’t changed. I can’t dig any deeper into her without—guess what?—a warrant. Jesus, Perry, don’t look so depressed. Good old Henry’s got your back. I got two more things for you.”

“Well . . . ? Or do I have to wait until after the commercial?”

“One: this Athena Williams lives at 354 Washington Avenue, in Brooklyn. For that I didn’t need a warrant, just a phone book.”

“How do you know you have the right one?”

“For Christ’s sake, how many Athena Williamses do you think there are? In Brooklyn? And.”

“And?”

“Your girl’s phone is there. You’re welcome.”

On the way
to his car Perry debated calling Angel’s parents to find out who Athena Williams might be. One of them might know, and it was always better to go into any situation with more information rather than less. He thought of Angel’s mother, who’d hired him to find her daughter; or her father, from whose home Angel had run away. He could ask either. Or both.

But Perry didn’t call because he didn’t trust them. Either of them. Why? Plenty of reasons. But more important, before his troubles he’d been a cop, and a good one. Gut instinct, he’d found, was always based on something: something indefinable, something too buried or too tiny or too new to bring into the rational mind and look at. But that you couldn’t explain it didn’t make it wrong. In a situation like this he had no problem doing what his instincts told him, and looking at it later.

Traffic moved well
along the FDR but bogged down on the Brooklyn Bridge. There were days when Perry wouldn’t have minded that—he felt on top of the world here, Manhattan spread beneath him on one side, Brooklyn on the other, the East River forever dividing and connecting the two—but today the clouds hung low and the rain still spat, and Angel might be ahead of him, right down there on Washington Avenue. He fought an urge to lean uselessly on the horn.

He inched along through the low gray clouds until he finally made it to the Brooklyn side. He had checked the address on his iPhone and it was in Fort Greene, right near the Pratt Institute. He’d just swooped down the endless bridge approach when the black Toyota he thought he’d glimpsed in his rearview mirror—and knew for sure he’d glimpsed a couple of days ago—appeared again, two cars behind him.

No question now: this was a tail. Again. He spun a fast left then a right then another left. No one with two brain cells to rub together would bumble around like that to actually get anywhere, but as Perry turned onto DeKalb Avenue the car was still behind him.

Damn.

The light was changing as Perry slammed on his brakes, jumped out, and charged back toward the black Toyota. Other cars honked, irate people cursed, and the car responded by cutting into the oncoming lane and peeling out before Perry could get to it, or even get a look at the driver. Or the plate. The Toyota raced past him, narrowly missing getting creamed by a milk truck.

Damn.

Perry stood in the rain, staring, then gave the honking, irritated drivers around him an irritated wave and got back into his car. His cell phone buzzed. He pulled around and stopped on Clinton. A text—Henry? With something new? He pulled it out.

dad—what time do u think u’ll b here? n.

Nicky. Oh, God, Nicky!

Perry checked his watch. Almost ten. If he headed over right now and traffic was with him, he could still get to the café before she did.

He typed,
Baby, I’m soooo sorry—I’m in Brooklyn on a case, so not far away. Should be done in an hour. Rain check (haha) until a little later? Lunch? And ice cream? I love you—Dad.
He had to retype some words more than once, his thumbs were so clumsy. He hated texting.
Then why didn’t you call her,
he asked himself. Instead of answering, he started his car and made his way toward Fort Greene.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Your hands are shaking on the steering wheel while you sit on the goddamn Brooklyn side street trying to catch your breath, the vision of the PI charging out of his car coming toward you like some goddamn madman replaying in your head, along with the sound of cars hitting brakes and blasting horns, and for a minute how you thought it was over, all your hard work over, all your hopes and dreams over. Fuck.

But no way you could let that happen, so you just pressed the gas pedal against the floor without thinking, without looking, praying the whole time, praying to God as you turned the car into the oncoming traffic, gritting your teeth as that goddamn milk truck came at you, hearing the crash in your mind and bracing for the impact, eyes half closed when the truck swerved at the last second, just clipping your back fender, but you held on, kept the car steady as it bumped back over the divider and you cut across two lanes of traffic, more horns like wild geese quacking, and you just kept going, driving without thinking, speeding, turning down one street then another, around corners and now, finally, finally, you sit and wait for your pulse to slow and your breathing to return to normal, the panic you felt only minutes ago replaced by rage that fuels you as you start the car again and pick up the trail, backtracking through the Brooklyn streets, thinking you cannot lose him, will not lose him, because everything depends upon it and you know you’re close—you can feel it in your flesh and bones.