Frank glowered into the mirror. "Yeah. If only it were that fuckin' easy."
Irie shook his old gray skull. "Not easy. Never sayed it was easy."
Neither spoke again until they got to the station.
CHAPTER 50
Frank put Irie in one of the interview rooms while she collected statement forms and a tape. Jill and Diego were in the squad room. She told them not to interrupt her.
"What'd he do?" Diego asked.
"Don't ask. If anybody's looking for me, take a message. I'll get back to 'em."
Opening the interview room door, she changed her mind. She came back a minute later with two Cokes. She pushed one to Irie, popped the tab on the other. Took a long swallow, pretending it was beer.
"I'ma tape this, Irie." She paused. "Or Pablo? What do you want me to call you?"
His face screwed up. "It gwan be strange but call me Pablo."
Pablo repeated the name as she got the tape ready. For the record she described the time and location, her name and rank, Pablo's various names and the reason for the interview. She read him his rights.
"You understand you don't have to talk to me?"
He nodded.
Frank pointed at the recorder.
"I unnerstan'."
"Let's start on February twelfth, nineteen sixty-nine. What happened that night?"
Pablo wobbled his head. "I can still see it, like it happen one night ago."
He told the story just as Frank remembered it. When he was done he put it to paper. She checked the statement, got his signature and concluded the interview.
She pushed back from the table but didn't get up. "Couple things. Off the record.
"Why him? You saw us coming out of Cal's. You knew it was a cop bar. Why jack a cop?"
"You remember? It was cold dat night? Wunt a lot of people out wit' money in dey pockets. I seen a white guy, lil gull, t'ink he make easy pigeon. I wunt gonna kill him. Just wan'ed his wallet. T'ought he'd hand it over easy like, 'cause a the gull. 'Cause a you. Den you go inside dat deli, and I t'ought, 'Damn, I fuh fool!' Shoulda got money befuh 'im spend it. But it cold. You bot' walkin' fast. I had hard time fuh keep up."
"It was cold," Frank agreed. "So you bounced around after Leavenworth, but how'd you end up here?"
"Warm, fa' away. Sunny like I imagine Panama to be. Nobody know me."
"No, I mean why Figueroa? Why South Central?"
"Met a Dominican lady lived here. I stayed wit' 'er a couple mont', t'ree maybe. 'Ere I was jus' anot'er poor nigger. No one see me.
"Then why snitch? Doesn't make sense if you were trying to be invisible."
"No," he admitted. "But I do it once or twicet. For money. No bad trouble come. So Irie keep his eye and ear open, mout' shut. Money come easy for jus' payin' attention."
"Jesus." Frank shook her head. "And you had no idea who I was?"
"How could I?" Irie asked. "You suppose' be in New York, not here like me."
Frank collected her tape and statement. Irie watched her. "A detective's gonna come and book you."
"Off'cer Frank," he implored. "You gotta fuh do dis?"
"I have to."
"You known me long time ..."
She nodded.
Palms wide, he appealed, "Maybe for dat. .. ?"
"Can't."
He slumped farther into his chair, dropping chin to chest. Frank stared at him. She tried to conjure hate, even anger, but all she could dredge was sorrow.
"Romeo," she mused. "For your father?"
"Fuh 'im. I try, but I couln' fuh to give ever'tin' up."
"Why John-John?"
A sad smile deepened his wrinkles.
"Fuh John-John Kennedy. I see 'im fuh standin' dere, doin' dat salute like a brave lil sol'juh. I ne'er forgettin' dat. 'Im lose 'is daddy, jus' like me." He paused. "Jus' like you."
Frank hardened her stare as Irie leaned toward her.
"I di' not mean fuh to kill you daddy. I jus' nee'ed to fix. I jus' wanna money. No dead daddies." He sucked his teeth and sat back. "Too many a dem already. Too many."
Frank opened the door.
Behind her he accused, "Dat was a lie, dat Berto's you frien'."
"That was a lie," Frank agreed, turning. "But the rest was true. He's a priest. He ministers to prisoners. Hoped maybe someday he'd find you that way. Your mother—"
"You saw 'er?" Irie cried.
"I talked to her." Irie asked how she was before Frank could explain, "She's fine. Edmundo's a mechanic. Got three kids. You're an uncle. Your sister, Flora, she's pretty strung out on crack."
"No-o-o," Irie moaned. "No-o. She a sweet gull."
"Not no more," Frank said. "Ain't none of us sweet no more."
She trudged back to her office, bone tired and desperate for a drink. She gave Jill quick instructions, then looked up a number in her office. She dialed, finally got connected.
"Annie, it's Franco."
"Hey, cookie! How are ya?"
"Been a long, strange day."
"How so?"
"Got a CI here, I've known him nine years. Good snitch. Good guy. You're not gonna believe this. I still don't believe it. I put two and two together, it made four, so then I put four and four together and got eight. Annie, this guy is Pablo Cammayo. One of my detectives is booking him even as we speak and I'm holding his confession."
"No freakin' way."
"I know. It sounds impossible. I mean, what are the odds, right? But he spilled everything. Everything. He's been running for thirty-six years, just like me. Shoulda seen it when I called him Pablo. It was like I was talking to a ghost. He denied it for a couple minutes but I told him I ran his prints and he folded like a bad hand."
"I can't believe this."
"I know, neither can I. Keep thinking I must be in some very lucid dream, but so far, I haven't been able to wake up."
"Well, let's extradite him before you do."
"You gonna come get him?"
"I'll talk to the captain, see if he'll cut me loose."
"All right. You'll have a room and a hot meal waiting for you."
"Deal. But tell me, what was the two and two you added together after all this time? You said you've known this guy, what, nine years?"
"Didn't know then what I knew after talking with his brother, with Roberto. A lot of little things clicked. The scar under his eye, no history. He's a carver—makes beautiful statues. Didn't know that until I talked to Roberto. He was going by John-John Romeo—his father's name was Romeo. And the Jamaican accent— remember, his mom had a trace of one? After he got out of the pen he drifted around with a Rasta for a while and figured that would be a good identity. His parents were Panamanian but the grandparents came over from Kingston. Assuming a Jamaican identity was a way to stay connected to his past."
"What happened between now and Leavenworth?"
"He got clean in the can. He was brought in pretty beat up and went to the hospital unit. He detoxed there. Knew if he went back out he was gonna die, and knew he couldn't go through another detox again so he walked away from the junk. There's a switch, huh, go to jail and get clean? He got out, bummed around, took odd jobs, drifted west. Figured the farther from New York he got, the safer he'd be."
Frank took uneasy note of the irony.
"He's pretty much a street person. He's got an old lady that has a regular job. He gets by peddling oranges, hawking tips, selling his carvings now and then but I know he gives a lot of 'em away. He's a nice guy, Annie. I've always liked him. I hate that it's him. I always thought it'd be such a relief to find the man who killed my dad, but there's no relief in this. None at all."
"I'm sorry for that."
"Yeah, well. You'll give me a call? Let me know when to expect you?"
"You bet, sister. Let me go track the captain down, get the ball rolling at this end."
"Roger that. Talk to you later."
Frank distracted herself with forms and reports. She slid a drawer open, groping for paper clips but fingering the journal she'd stashed earlier. She drew it out, took a glance at the clock. She dialed Gail at all her numbers, to no avail. She sighed, stared at the clock again.