The Ninth Step (21 page)

Jack was tired. He just wanted to go inside and lie down. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll take it easy. And Larry?”

“What?”

“Thanks for the advice.”

T
HE WALRUS SWAM FORWARD
until its great mustached face was just a few inches from Nadim’s own. It hung there, in the bright blue depths, weightless in the water, buoyant as a huge ungainly angel, though its face was mournful, with the sadness of all trapped animals. They had a moment together, the human and the beast, staring into each other’s eyes, and then the gray boulder swirled off toward the other side of its tank.

Nadim shivered, though it was actually rather warm in the aquarium’s dark viewing room. He took out his wallet and squinted at its contents: only twenty-seven dollars left. He had been crazy, spending money on the admission fee; who knew how long he might have to make the rest last? He couldn’t go back to his apartment, couldn’t return to Jackson Heights. If he tried to pick up shifts from some new car service, the owner would want references, and then what would his old boss say?
Yes, Nadim was an excellent driver but unreliable. And then there’s the little matter of the police coming around and asking why he killed a man …

Despite its briny, rather rank smell, Nadim could normally find a certain measure of peace in the aquarium, staring into the tanks at the seals and manta rays gliding through their worlds. And pausing, of course, to watch the jellyfish, those pulsing, shimmering umbrellas of light. But now he shoved his trembling hands into his pockets. He remembered how he used to feel when he drank too many cups of coffee to make it through a long driving shift. This was like that, but triple—as if he couldn’t stand being inside his own skin. He watched the walrus swimming round and round in a circle, in its underwater cage, where the scenery never varied, where nothing new and good could ever happen to it. He wondered if it wondered how its natural free life had shrunk down to this.

Blue shadows rippled across the walls. Nadim’s thoughts turned, as they always did here, to his daughter. To Enny’s face, round, bespectacled, beaming with pride as she helped him wash the town car on a Sunday afternoon. She would lecture him if they didn’t get every square inch sparkling clean. He remembered one time when he had interrupted her instructions by spraying her with the hose. He had expected her to giggle, but she had broken into tears. His heart ached for her: she didn’t seem to know how to play, to be a young girl, to have spontaneous fun. Maybe it was because of her utterly humorless, falsely pious mother and grandfather, or the way the other children teased her—maybe Nadim had unintentionally echoed their unkindness. He wished he could apologize, could hold her close.

He thought of his daughter and of the soapy car, and that got him considering the future of the plan. Maybe he couldn’t contribute his fair share of the necessary money, but he could still offer his skill. They would need drivers, that was certain. He had not counted on such a direct role, not the way he’d laid it out in his mind, but that was when things were simpler, when he wasn’t on the run. But maybe, if he could just stay out of trouble for a few weeks, things would calm down again, and he could rejoin the others and help make the plan happen. He could do his part.

A mother wandered into the dark room with two small children in tow, and again Nadim’s thoughts returned to his daughter. To Enny’s face shining in the light of her bedside lamp, as he read her favorite story. What was it that Heer had cried out when her beloved Ranjha was taken? “Oh, Lord, destroy this town and these cruel people so that justice may be done!”

And the evildoers paid for their wrongs as they writhed in the flames.

Perhaps his wife had been right after all.

Perhaps it truly was the will of Allah.

D
ESPITE ALL OF HIS
worries and whirling thoughts—or perhaps because they had just plumb tired him out—Jack enjoyed a night of deep, restful sleep. Before heading out for work the next morning, he remembered that he had forgotten to deliver a message to his landlord.

The old man was upstairs having breakfast, made for him by his home aide, a pleasant Jamaican woman.

“You want some eggs?” Mr. G asked when Jack popped his head in.

“Thanks, but I’m off to work. How are you doing, Thea?”

The aide smiled. “Just fine, Mr. Jack. Thanks for asking.”

Jack turned back to his landlord. “I just wanted to tell you that I checked on Mrs. Kornfeld yesterday. She’s fine; the lights were off the other night because she was down in Cape May visiting her niece.”

Mr. G stared up through his Coke-bottle-thick glasses. “That’s good to know. We old folks gotta look out for each other.” He dug a fork unsteadily into his plate of eggs.

“You sleep okay?” Jack asked.

Mr. G nodded. “Not too good. I guess we’re birds of a feather, huh?”

Jack gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

Mr. G shrugged. “I was lookin’ out the window. I seen you down there, workin’ on your car so late.”

Jack frowned. Had the old man been dreaming? Or maybe he hadn’t been wearing his glasses?

“I was wonderin’ why you couldn’t fix it in the
A.M.
,” Mr. G added. “I thought that was kinda funny, why you were out workin’ under it in the middle a’ the night.”

Jack stared at the old man. His blood went cold.

THE BOMB SQUAD CREW
cordoned off the block at both ends, evacuated all the neighbors, and then sent a little robot rolling under the undercarriage of Jack’s car. After it sent them a closed-circuit video report, they were able to jack up the vehicle and take care of business.

When they were done, the sergeant in charge, a slim man with a professional mechanic’s aura of quiet confidence, came over to speak to Jack, where he was standing on the other side of the unit’s armored truck.

“I’ll tell ya,” the man said, shaking his head: “You are one lucky cop. The second the ignition went on, your ride would have been history.”

Jack frowned; his ride would hardly have been the only thing that became history. “Did you get any prints or anything?”

The sergeant shook his head. “This was a pro job.”

Jack lowered his voice. “Did you recognize the M.O.? I have reason to believe that this could be a Mob thing.”

“We’ll look into it. It’s not often we get to see a Mob package in one piece.”

Jack turned. Beyond the yellow tape, he saw Mr. Gardner and Thea, and Mrs. Kornfeld in a faded bathrobe, and a group of other neighbors standing around, looking anxiously on. Jack imagined the fierce whirlwind that had almost just incinerated him, and which would probably have blown out the windows of their quiet homes. Such a peaceful neighborhood, so sheltered.

Not anymore.

“I’M GONNA NEED SOME
very direct answers here. No pussyfooting around.”

Jack nodded somberly at Lieutenant Frank Cardulli. He wasn’t thrilled to be on the hot seat but was immensely grateful that Sergeant Tanney was out working a fresh double murder in East New York. The thought of having to deal with his immediate supervisor today was more than he could bear.

“Did you make any direct threats against this Raucci character?”

Jack strained to recall his beer-soaked recent night in Carroll Gardens. “I don’t think so.” Cardulli’s thick eyebrows rose. “No, sir, definitely not. I just mentioned that there’s no statute of limitations on murder. That was just pointing out the law, right?”

The lieutenant didn’t even begin to look relieved. “Were there any witnesses?”

Jack sighed. “Yeah. Another mobster. John Carpsio Junior.”

“Wasn’t that the guy who tipped you off about that case a couple years back?”

Jack nodded.

“And what was he doing there?”

Jack shrugged. “Just passing by. I guess he lives in the neighborhood.”

Cardulli sat back, steepled his hands together, and turned toward the window of his office. He stared out for a couple of minutes, then turned back, shaking his head. “I really wish you had come to me when you first got this information about your brother. We’re not vigilantes here. We don’t operate on our own.”

Jack nodded. “I know that. I was just hoping to get some information first, to see if I could find any grounds to turn this into a real investigation.”

Cardulli snorted. “Well, I guess we’ve got grounds now.” He ran a hand across his face. “I’ll talk to the chief of detectives and to DCPI, see if we can’t keep a lid on this for now.”

Jack tried not to squirm in his chair. “Can we bring Raucci in?”

Cardulli shrugged. “We can extend the invitation. And then he’s gonna go to his lawyer, and his lawyer is gonna advise him not to cooperate. And then, of course, he’ll refuse to talk.”

WEIRDLY, THAT WASN’T HOW
it played out. Raucci did go to his lawyer, and his lawyer undoubtedly advised his client to stay mum—and there was no legal way to order him in, short of an arrest, which wasn’t going to happen without any concrete evidence—but after an uncomfortably long wait out in the task force squad room, Cardulli called Jack back into the office.

“I just got off the phone with Raucci’s attorney,” he said. “You’re not gonna believe this: for once in the history of the planet, we’ve got a mobster who’s actually willing to talk without the pressure of an indictment. But he’s got an unusual request.”

“T
HERE HE IS,” JACK
said, squinting through the binoculars against the glare of the afternoon sun. He turned to Lieutenant Cardulli in the driver’s seat.

“We’ve got you covered,” his boss replied. “Go see what this bastard has to say.”

Jack nodded, then stepped out of the car. Behind him, the Shore Parkway thrummed with early rush-hour traffic; ahead, a fishing pier stretched several hundred yards into New York Harbor. Out in the open like this, he felt seriously exposed, but there was one thing you could say about the NYPD: like any large bureaucracy, it had its share of inefficiencies and inanities, yet when it came to the attempted murder of a member of service, it didn’t fool around. Behind Cardulli sat two other cars, both RMPs containing highly capable-looking uniforms. It seemed hugely unlikely that a mobster would issue such a public invitation to a cop, then try to bump him off, but there was no point in taking chances.

Jack pulled on his sports jacket; it was always cooler by the shore, with sea breezes sweeping in off the harbor. As he walked out onto the broad concrete pier, the traffic noise behind him faded away, leaving the sound of seagulls cawing overhead and the cable for a flagpole pinging against the hollow metal. As Jack walked forward, a man sitting on a bench stood up, a big bruiser with deep-set eyes and a face the color of liverwurst. One of Frank Raucci’s crew, evidently. Jack glanced behind him: the NYPD vehicles seemed a long ways away. The muscle gave Jack a quick but thorough pat down, checking for a wire; not finding one, he nodded and sat back down. Next to him, a little sign read
DO NOT CUT BAIT ON BENCHES OR PICNIC TABLES
.

Jack walked on, out into the harbor, under the vast blue plain of sky, toward a lone figure standing out at the end of the pier. He understood Frank Raucci’s stipulation that he wouldn’t talk on record—the last thing any mobster wanted was to have proof lying around that he had cooperated with the NYPD—but he couldn’t understand why the man had insisted that they meet at this isolated but still public spot.

Jack passed several fishermen; none of them looked suspicious. A wrinkled old Asian man reeling in his line, a couple of Hispanic homeboys joking around as they baited their hooks. The concrete was spattered with seagull shit. Ahead, a big green brass torch rose up in the middle of the concrete. As he drew closer, Jack was able to read the inscription around the monument’s base:
BROOKLYN REMEMBERS … FOR THOSE LOST ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
. He glanced to the north, across the broad harbor. Who could ever have imagined that the Empire State Building would once again rule that distant skyline—that those brash usurpers, the twin towers, might simply disappear?

Out at the end of the pier, free as a bird in the bright sunshine of a glorious spring day, stood the man who had likely ordered the killing of Petey Leightner. And ordered a bomb placed under Jack’s car. Jack felt a fury rising in him but tamped it down. He was a professional, and he wasn’t about to give this thug the slightest excuse to skate from the murder charges he so richly deserved.

The gap-toothed old man rested both hands on a cane and squinted up into the sun as Jack approached. Jack thought of the mafiosi he had seen around as a kid, who prided themselves on their sharp hand-tailored suits and their impeccable Italian shoes; he compared them to this one-eyed old-timer, who wore ancient white loafers, Sansabelt poly slacks, and a beige jacket from the seventies, with epaulets and too many pockets.

“Thanks for comin’,” Raucci said.

Jack, expecting a mobster’s usual sarcasm, was taken aback. “You must be pretty disappointed to see me standing here in one piece.”

“You got the wrong idea about me, Leightner.”

Jack snorted. “I don’t think so. I know exactly what kind of creep you are.”

The old man frowned. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being talked to with such disrespect—but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned, hooked his cane on the railing, grasped the metal with gnarled hands, and stared out at the vast silvery plain of the harbor. The breeze ruffled his wispy white hair.

Jack edged closer. “So what do you have to say that you didn’t already try to say the other night?”

Raucci shook his head. “Other than you comin’ around my house like that, I got no problem with you.”

“I know about you. About your crew, about what happened down in Philly.” Of course, Jack didn’t know much about it at all, but it was always good to start an interrogation at least pretending that you held some cards.

Raucci waved a liver-spotted hand. “That’s ancient history.”

Jack gritted his teeth. If he heard that damned phrase once more, he wasn’t going to be responsible for his actions. “I know how you hired Darnel Teague. I know all about you.”