Nightbird (20 page)

“I’ve already been interviewed.”

“This is the follow-up. It’s standard.”

Ryan transferred his hand to the woman’s shoulder and guided her back, out of the way of the people rushing off the elevators.
A gentlemanly thing to do, her safety his only concern.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“I have a friend who works out in this gym,” he said.

“Tell Russ I’ll be with him in a second,” Darcy said to the woman behind the reception desk.

Darcy Jacobs Winters was not a classic beauty. Her face was large and full. Her figure was deceptive, slim up top, pearing
out from the hips down. Ryan asked her what she remembered about the night Gillian died.

“The phone ringing in the middle of the night. My husband answering it. He said the police asked him to come down to the precinct
on Fifty-fourth Street. Gillian had been seriously injured. We were shocked to find out she was dead.”

Ryan remembered his own middle-of-the-night call from the police officer in Utah: Your son has been seriously injured. But
Ryan had been a cop a long time. He knew exactly what “seriously injured” meant.

“I’m talking about before you went to bed,” he said. “What time did your husband get home that night?”

“A little before twelve-thirty.”

“In the previous interview you said twelve forty-five.”

“Did I? I forgot what I said. What time does Letterman end? Letterman was still on.”

“It ends at twelve-thirty.”

“It used to be on until one.”

“That was the old Carson show, years ago.”

“Then I should have said about twelve-fifteen. I’d fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on. I always wait up for Trey, unless
he says he’s going to be real late. Letterman was still on when he got home.”

Ryan wrote in his notebook. Sometimes it unnerved people if they saw you recording their words in ink. It implied adding teeth
to words that might return to bite them. Darcy Winters didn’t even blink.

“I know people are going to say my husband was having an affair with Gillian,” she added. “But it’s not true.”

“I believe you,” he said, smiling.

“People think because of his looks he’s a womanizer. Even my father called him a playboy when we first started dating. Then
he got to know him better.”

“Your father was a great friend to the cops in this city. The Police Foundation would have gone broke years ago without him.
We were all truly sad to hear of his death.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “My father was a wonderful man. My whole life, before I met Trey.”

They stood on a huge western-style rug near a cactus taller than they. The tinkle of silverware and the screech of chairs
on the marble café floor echoed in the cavernous room.

“Did you ever meet Gillian Stone?” Ryan asked.

“At an AIDS fund-raiser in the Sheraton a few months ago. Actually, this may seem cruel, but I wasn’t surprised she committed
suicide.”

“Why?”

“I took a good look at her at the fund-raiser. Real good. After all, my husband gives her this great apartment; I’m curious,
right? She was beautiful, truly beautiful, but something was missing or wrong. I don’t know what to call it. Something missing
in her eyes. My husband says she was doing drugs, but I don’t think that’s it. Oh shit, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking
about. Go ahead, ask me something else.”

Darcy Jacobs Winters gave her assessment of Gillian with such conviction, Ryan’s gut reaction was to walk away. He wondered
how a sleazeball like Trey Winters could hook up with a nice person like this. Marty Jacobs was right to object. Any father
would do the same.

“Do you know someone named Buster Scorza?” Ryan said.

“I know of him,” she said. “My husband has some business dealings with him.”

The answer surprised Ryan. He’d had his next question ready, a follow-up on a negative answer. Sometimes you get fooled.

“What kind of business dealings?” Ryan asked.

“Umm, something to do with the theater unions.”

“Scorza’s been legally barred from involvement with those unions.”

“My husband says he still wields influence. Actually he has a meeting with him this week. Wednesday morning, I believe.”

A steady stream of tight-bodied women in clingy exercise gear passed by, elevator doors opening every few seconds. Ryan had
been prepared to dissect Trey Winters’s personal relationship with Gillian, but he decided to switch gears. He knew he couldn’t
turn this woman against her husband. Better to get on her good side.

“Has Scorza been threatening your husband?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, looking alarmed. “Why?”

“I don’t mean to worry you. But Scorza has a history of extortion and intimidation.”

“It’s just a business deal.”

“Now
you’re
worrying
me
.”

“No, please don’t worry,” she said, laughing. “It’s nothing. Mr. Scorza said he’d intercede with the unions in regard to my
husband’s new show, and hopefully avoid any problems.”

“What’s the catch? Scorza always has a catch.”

“Everything has a catch, Detective,” she said, still smiling. “He asked my husband to speak to my company in his behalf in
regards to his Times Square real estate holdings. His buildings are in the renovation zone.”

“The renovation zone?”

“One building on Forty-second Street. Three or four more around Eighth Avenue. Mr. Scorza wants to get the fair market price
for his buildings, before the city condemns them.”

“If your company buys them before the city condemns them, Scorza gets a lot more money.”

“It happens all the time. It’s just business. Nothing to worry about.”

“One hand washes the other.”

“That’s all it is. But thank you for your concern.”

“Just be careful of Scorza,” Ryan said.

“Thanks. I’ll make sure my husband stays on his toes.”

He watched her walk away, a tomboy walk. Heels banging heavily against the floor. Ryan had been wondering where the actual
gym was. Then he saw that everyone who walked through the restaurant area wound up at a bank of elevators on the other side.
Ryan figured it was those elevators that carried the well-heeled jocks to far-flung corners of the immense gym.

Ryan punched the elevator button, knowing that Trey Winters was smarter than he figured. He didn’t have the heart to confront
Darcy with the testimony of Stella Grasso, or Gillian’s sister, Faye. She’d never believe it. If Trey Winters told Darcy the
sky was falling, she’d advance him the money for a billion hard hats.

He’d set her up perfectly. Whatever his deal with Buster Scorza was, he’d sold her on his scenario. In truth, there was no
way Buster Scorza, even when he did have influence in the stagehands union, was worth the money he’d make selling his buildings
to the Jacobs Organization. It was a deal too sweet. Payment for something else… like murdering Gillian Stone.

He took a last look at Darcy Winters waiting at the other bank of elevators, and he wondered what kind of gym this was. There
was no clank of iron weights, no squeak of sneakers on a hardwood floor. Only the tinkle of cups and glasses, the whir of
a blender. The smell was not sweat or chlorine from a pool, but fresh coffee. And fresher money.

I
t was Victor’s first trip to Randall’s Island. From the maps it appeared the island’s only purpose was to support the pillars
of the Triborough Bridge. In the sky above the island, the wide ribbon of concrete and steel connected auto traffic between
Manhattan, the Bronx, and Queens. The island itself seemed deserted on a Monday morning. It was certainly a place where no
one lived. Even the permanent buildings appeared abandoned. The streets looked like overgrown and unrepaired paths in a forgotten
industrial complex.

Victor parked Pinto’s car in a lot opposite the main tent of a closed street fair. A line of carny booths stretched along
a dirt path. Idle rides, including a small ferris wheel, sat on the opposite side of the tent. The sign read, “Fri, Sat, and
Sun Only.”

He decided to walk because he couldn’t figure out what road to take. It all seemed like one big back alley, and he didn’t
want to get stopped by the cops for some obscure driving violation. Ward’s Island was his destination, and it was close enough.

Ward’s Island had been joined by landfill to the south side of Randall’s Island. The linked islands sat in the northern part
of the East River between Manhattan and Queens and were officially part of Manhattan. The 255-acre Ward’s Island was originally
purchased from the Indians in 1637 by the Dutch governor. After the American Revolution it was sold to the brothers Jasper
and Bartholomew Ward for farmland. The southern tip of the island splits the East River into the Harlem River and the Hell
Gate Channel.

From books in the library, Victor learned the island once housed an auxiliary immigration station, an asylum, a hospital for
destitute immigrants, and a potter’s field. But he was interested in it not as a place for the penniless to die, but as a
place to get rich and start a new life. The point was to get the money from Trey Winters and, in case the police were involved,
use the island to elude capture. As did Alain Charnier in
The French Connection
.

The trick was to figure out how Charnier did it. The waters surrounding the island were Victor’s last resort; he didn’t want
to go into the water. Swimming would slow his flight, and carrying money and clothes would add to the effort. But if he had
to, a strong swimmer like Victor could traverse either the Harlem River or the Hell Gate Channel.

The books said that hundreds of ships had sunk in the Hell Gate’s waters, including the British frigate
Hussar
in 1780. The
Hussar
had been carrying gold and silver for military paymasters. Divers still hunted for its treasure. In 1876 the U.S. Army Corps
of Engineers blasted out most of the dangerous underwater rocks, but the channel still remained difficult to navigate.

Alain Charnier, in the movie, didn’t appear to be a strong swimmer. He was an old man who used guile. Victor couldn’t imagine
Charnier going into the filthy water. Alain Charnier escaped the clutches of the police in a more elegant manner. Completely
dry.

In the movie the police had blocked only the Triborough Bridge exit, because they knew Charnier had driven onto the island.
They assumed he’d leave by car. He didn’t. If Charnier did not go in the water, the map showed one other possible avenue of
escape: the Ward’s Island footbridge to Manhattan.

Victor walked past a golf driving range and New York City’s school for firemen. In the pure peace of the summer morning the
island seemed an oasis in disrepair. The green grass of picnic areas and ball fields stretched out like shaggy meadows. Off
to Victor’s right lay a complex of the city buildings: a psychiatric hospital, a men’s shelter.

He strolled the peaceful footpath around to the east side of the island. Although it was early in the day he was shocked that
no one was using the park. In a city of joggers, it would be so easy to walk across the footbridge from Manhattan and enjoy
this bounty. The island was an incredibly quiet haven in the middle of a brutal and noisy city. The breeze blew gently off
the water. The sounds of birds came from the heavily wooded area in the center of the island. The smell of trees and plants
blooming filled the air. New Yorkers didn’t appreciate the gifts nature had bestowed on them.

As he rounded the bottom of the island, Victor saw the Ward’s Island footbridge in the distance. It was a thin slice of turquoise
metal rising high above the Harlem River. He was now sure the narrow footbridge into Harlem was the route used by Charnier.
The police didn’t cover this route because they never anticipated a chase on foot. Across the dark river, Manhattan loomed
like a fortress of brick and concrete. He began walking up the path to the bridge ramp.

“Hey, buddy,” a voice said.

Victor turned to see a man in a dark green khaki uniform leaning out of an official-looking Jeep.

“The bridge is closed,” the man said, a glaze of sugar on his upper lip. “You can’t get up there.”

It was then that Victor noticed an obstruction up ahead, around the next angled turn. A huge barricade of plywood and barbed
wire.

“Why?” Victor said.

“They wanted it,” he said, pointing across the river. “Those people in the housing project over there. They said the inmates
were walking across the bridge. Pissing in their hallways, bumming money, acting weird, shit like that. They had all kinds
of stories about rapes and shit. They were picketing, doing everything to get it closed. The city finally said fuck it, closed
it down. Over a year ago.”

“Too bad,” Victor said.

“Hey, makes my job easier. Know what I mean? Less beer cans and rubbers. Only thing, it gets spooky out here sometimes. Nobody
but weirdos to talk to. A whole park full of nothing but nut jobs. Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be caught dead out here
at night.”

“I see,” Victor said, wondering how the man knew he wasn’t a nut job.

“You’re a big guy and all that. But I’d be a little careful anyway. You see somebody, don’t make eye contact, whatever you
do. Some of these psychos wandering around this park, they’re not fucking human. My brother-in-law is a cop, and he says that
psychos get this superhuman strength. Can’t be stopped. Gotta blow them away. And sometimes that don’t even work. They keep
coming at you.”

The man drove away. Victor looked up at the footbridge. The entrances on both sides were blocked by the barricades. Past the
barricades, approaches ran for several hundred feet, gradually sloping upward. Then nothing. The center of the bridge was
raised to allow ships to pass underneath. It was raised, not in the center like a drawbridge, but one long section, raised
to its highest point, like a pole-vault bar. They’d simply left it in that position. Nothing but air between the two approaches.
He couldn’t believe his luck.