"I want to make a phone call."
"You'll get your call," Mike said, "as soon as we get up to the squad."
The door opened and Mercer entered the room. The fact that he was bigger and taller than Kiernan Dylan was comforting to me, and surprising to the angry young man.
"Coop, you go on ahead. Call Peterson and tell him we're on the way. The precinct needs to send a squad car to come by and keep things quiet," Mike said. "And get the bar car back ASAP to get as many names and identifications as they can.
"Mercer, you and I will flank Mr. Dylan here as we walk through the crowd of his admirers. No cuffs as long as he behaves. And you, sir, you can tell your man Charlie to make it last call in about ten minutes, once we're out of the way. You think your pit bulls are guarding the door?"
Dylan was speechless now. He nodded his head.
"Well, just tell them to be cool with this while we leave here and the rest will go down easy."
I worked my way through the bar area and out onto the street. I crossed to the curb on the far side of Mercer's car and made the call to Lieutenant Peterson.
Minutes later, the front door of Ruffles opened and Mercer stepped out, followed by Dylan and Mike. Kiernan told the two rough-looking men in black on either side of the entrance that he was going off with the police.
The line of patrons waiting to get in was almost a block long. Several kids recognized Kiernan and shouted out his name. Near the front of the group were four guys who seemed to be friends of his. One called out, saying they had come to meet him and asking where he was going. Kiernan hesitated, and Mike and Mercer paused with him.
The dark-skinned bouncer told the group to shut up. "Back off," he said. "They're cops."
The most vocal of the foursome took his cell phone from his pocket and aimed its little camera lens at the departing trio, framing them under the Ruffles sign as his flash went off.
"Get ready to hit the gas, Mercer. Coop, you're riding in front." Mike opened the rear door of the car and got into the backseat with Kiernan. "The last thing I meant to do tonight was stage a perp walk.
TWENTY-NINE
Where's my kid, Chapman? I want to see my kid."
Five o'clock on a Sunday morning and the Manhattan North Homicide Squad room was as quiet as the morgue. Jimmy Dylan's basso voice shattered the silence as the heavy door swung shut behind him.
"Jeez, Mr. Dylan. I got a funny feeling you're the last guy in the world he wants to talk to right now."
Mike, Mercer, and I were chewing on the remains of egg sandwiches that Mercer had picked up at one of the greasiest spoons in all of Harlem, a block away from the station house.
"Your father used to look the other way now and then. Decent people, hardworking people-he gave them a break first time out," Dylan said, his green eyes aflame with rage. He was about Mike's height but much stockier, with red hair and sideburns tinged with gray. "You're a disgrace to his name."
"Fortunately for you, Kiernan didn't fall too far from the tree." Mike had predicted that Jimmy Dylan would show up before daybreak. Kiernan must have had second thoughts about calling one of his father's business lawyers, hoping he could skate through the ABC violations-Alcoholic Beverage Control laws-and be out of court before he was missed.
Instead, he had phoned one of his high school friends-a defense attorney-who was driving in from his vacation at an inn in Montauk, almost three hours away. But Charlie the bartender must have gotten the news to Kiernan's brothers and given them the choice of telling their father.
"Where's my boy, Chapman? What the fuck do you mean bringing him here to a homicide squad office?"
"Temper, temper, Mr. D. Can't you see there's a lady here?" Dylan's ruddy complexion deepened in color, as the flush streaked down his neck and disappeared beneath his blue and white striped oxford cloth shirt.
"I wouldn't give a damn if she was Mother Mary. Where's Kiernan?" Two uniformed cops came pounding up the staircase and pushed open the door behind Dylan. Mike got to his feet and held out his arm.
Mercer stood up next to him.
"Game's up for the moment, Mr. D. We're talking to Kiernan. You can see him when we're done."
"He's got rights, dammit. He's got the right to see me."
"I'm the prosecutor working with the detectives. Your son actually didn't want us to contact you. He was very firm about that. Kiernan's called a lawyer," I said, standing behind Mercer. "They can meet as soon as he arrives. Meanwhile, he's comfortable and having something to eat."
Dylan took a step in my direction, wagging his finger at me. "He's…
he's just a kid, missy. You keep me away from him and there'll be hell to pay. You'll never set your ass in a courtroom again."
"I'm handling this, Coop, okay?" Mike gave me his most exasperated look before he turned back to Dylan. "Trust me, Mr. D., you got no more control over where that skinny ass goes than the rest of us do.
No more threats, got it?"
"Kiernan's got rights."
"Jeez, you sound like all the lowlife morons I take off the streets.
Everybody and his mother's got rights. Don't know what they are or how to use 'em but slap the cuffs on any scumbag around and bam! He's got rights. Kiernan may be your son but he's a grown man. Only kids that have a right to be questioned in the presence of a parent are minors, under the age of sixteen."
"I want to be with him. I want to make sure he knows what he's doing," Jimmy Dylan said, wiping the sweat off his neck with the cuff of his shirt. "What's with this homicide bullshit?"
"Cool your heels for a while. We finish up with Kiernan, there'll be plenty of time to chat with you."
Dylan grabbed Mike by the shoulder. "Don't play God with me, Chapman. This here's my son and there's something bigger than a lawnmower chewing up my guts from the minute Junior called to tell me about this. If it's my problem you want to know about, then deal with me and let go of my kid."
"What problem would that be, Jimmy?" Mike brushed his hand away.
Dylan nodded in my direction. "Where can we go to talk?"
"Right here. Right now. You think this is gonna be a secret, backroom conversation?"
"It's personal. It's confidential."
"I got news for you. It's not confidential anymore. Even Kiernan had a few things to say about it."
"He what?" Dylan said, pounding a tight fist into the open palm of his left hand.
The door opened again and a young man in a sweatshirt and chinos came into the room. One of the cops tried to stop him as he pulled out a business card to identify himself.
"Mr. Dylan. Frankie Shea," he said, approaching to shake hands. "Kiernan called you?"
"Yeah."
"I got a stable of lawyers. I got guys who do all the licensing for me with the SLA, deal with all the nuisances and aggravation. Why the hell did he reach out for you?"
Shea lowered his voice. "My office does a lot of-um-like violent crime stuff. My boss is on the panel for homicide assignments. Kiernan was just a little nervous about these guys who brought him in. One of you Chapman?"
"Mike Chapman, Mr. Shea. This is Detective Mercer Wallace and Alexandra Cooper, from the Manhattan DA's office."
Shea was short and wiry, with chiseled good looks and the edgy air of a lightweight boxer.
"You holding my client?"
"Yeah. He just had some chow. He wanted to take a nap till you got here."
"Want to tell me what this is about?"
"Sure. We'll step into the lieutenant's office."
Dylan roared again. "For me you had no place to talk, Chapman? You got a mouthpiece still green behind the ears-look at him-and you're going to tell him what's going on before you tell me?"
"Hey, Mr. D. He's got rights, you know what I mean?"
"Frankie, tell him I can sit in on this."
"Sorry, Mr. Dylan," Shea said, scratching his head to think of a way to say what he needed to without further infuriating his friend's father.