“Get me a bourbon, we’ll talk.”
Joe didn’t ask if he had any particular brand in mind, he got that and more surliness from the bartender, brought it back, put it down on the table, McCarthy motioned for him to sit, he did.
The bourbon had brought McCarthy back to temporary life, he said,
“You were on the job?”
Joe nearly laughed, they always could tell, he asked back,
“You’re using the past tense, why d’you think I’m still not a cop?”
McCarthy sighed, the glass nearly empty already, said,
“You have the eyes but not the edge, least not anymore.”
Joe was going to say,
“That’s a fucking bit rich from a has-been, staring into a whiskey glass.”
Went with:
“I’m doing a book on the case. Any insights you might have?”
McCarthy shot back,
“No you’re not, doing a book, this is some personal gig, I spent ten years in IA and one thing I know is a goddamn lie when I hear it.”
Joe figured the easy way wasn’t going to work, the guy was beyond bitter so hard-ass would be the only route, he asked,
“Why’d you quit?”
McCarthy made a sound that was between a groan and a snigger, said,
“They got me out, well, Shea, the fucking golden boy and my own backup guy, dumb fuck I was, I never saw them coming, but I’ll tell you something, my partner, Rodriguez, it’s my feeling he never left IA. He’s up close and personal with Shea but my gut tells me, he is still IA. I thought I’d be able to get Shea, but like I said, I never saw him coming.”
Then he looked at Joe, said quietly,
“And neither will you.”
Joe said,
“You don’t know me.”
McCarthy began to roll the empty shot glass, said,
“I know them.”
Joe figured he wasn’t going to get any useful information and got ready to leave, he put a twenty on the table, said,
“Have another on me.”
McCarthy ignored the bill, asked,
“You got any friends still on the force?”
Joe debated, then told him of his ex-partner, Jay, and he could see McCarthy rummage through whatever mental faculties he still had, then:
“Yeah, I know the guy, one of Shea’s crew.”
Joe was stunned, protested, said,
“Uh-oh, not Jay, you’re way off the beam there, buddy.”
McCarthy gave a grim smile, said,
“Try finding any of the young Turks not in Shea’s pocket, now that would be a short book.”
He stared into space for a minute, then warned,
“Be smart, drop it, you’re no match for these guys.”
Joe stood up, said,
“I’m a little surprised at a guy like you.”
McCarthy came a little back to life, looked up, and Joe said,
“You were the head honcho in Internal Affairs and you just packed up your tent, went and hid in a goddamn bottle of bourbon, thought you guys were supposed to be relentless, what the fuck happened to you?”
McCarthy said,
“They let me live.”
Joe was rattled by the whole magnitude of what he hoped to achieve, bring down a hero cop, and to keep his mind from freaking out, he indulged in a fantasy, about the nurse, Maria, here’s how he saw it go down.
He’d ring the hospital where Lucia was and ask if he could speak with Maria, he wasn’t sure exactly what good this was doing him, this pie in the sky scenario but it felt good, she’d come on the line and he’d explain who he was, she’d say,
“I remember you, the tourist to New York.”
But say it with warmth, and encouraged, he’d ask,
“Might I take you to dinner?”
Couldn’t believe he was asking, and if only in reality he could do that. He imagined she’d laugh and he’d like that laugh, it would come from deep within, he could almost see her face, she’d say,
“Not so much a tourist now I think, I would love to.”
He’d arrange to meet her in midtown and they’d have a drink then do dinner, she’d say that would be lovely.
Lovely... if only, and he realized he was projecting his sister’s personality on the nurse.
His hands were sweating, it had been a long time since he’d asked anyone out and certainly since Nora’s death, it had never even crossed his mind. He did know this whole mad fantasy wasn’t really helping.
And then the guilt, the fuck was he doing, even thinking of dating? He was supposed to be tracking a killer and then he thought,
“I’m even more stressed than I thought.”
Instead of making the dream happen, he finally rented a car, a Pontiac, he’d always wanted one of those.
The rest of the day, he was edgy, veering between excitement and he had to admit, fear.
He studied his notes on Shea, work always calmed him.
Finally, he went out, hit a local bar, stopped the useless daydreams.
The meeting with McCarthy had depressed Joe more than he liked to admit.
After, he headed back to his place, he was bone weary, information overload, he hadn’t liked McCarthy but he sure hated to see a man’s spirit crushed. He was bothered too by the implication that Jay was in Shea’s pocket... could that be true?
Joe was no longer a cop, and it did make horrible sense that Jay was going to lean toward cops, not civilians.
He knew he should eat something but he was wired and needed to just climb down a notch from the fevered speculations of his mind.
A little weed would do that but reading always helped too.
His staples, the books that had influenced him most, were sitting on his shelf, dog-eared, underlined, held together by tape.
Michael Herr... Dispatches.
Pete Dexter... The Paperboy.
Michael Connelly... Crime Beat.
He opened the Herr at random and hit on the disappearance of Sean Flynn, Errol’s son... it saddened him so.
He closed the book and figured he’d done most of his groundwork, time to confront the beast, see if he could meet with Shea.
All he’d heard, read, researched on the guy and still, he didn’t really have a handle on him, the guy was like a ghost, there was a ton of data but no substance.
He’d call, give the line about the book etc. and see if the guy would meet him.
If he was, as seemed to be the scenario, a narcissistic personality, he wouldn’t be able to turn down the chance to talk about himself, and if Jay had tipped him off, then they’d have themselves a hell of a mental game of chess.
Joe moved to his narrow bed, lay down, thought about Nora, and his heart burned in his chest, if that smooth son of a bitch had strangled her, by Christ, Joe would bring him down.
It was no longer anything about a story, or a book, it was purely personal.
And the black guy, who’d deserted McCarthy, hooked up with Shea, now there was one fascinating character.
Shake hands with the devil.
Twenty-One
Could a guy be that ruthless, that calculating?
Everything in Joe’s experience told him that here was the real dangerous one, the guy who smiled and you took your eyes off him.
Death row had currently three of these smiling charmers, and the one thing they all had in common, they managed to somehow get behind you, you never actually got to meet them head-on, and that was the biggest mistake of all, letting them out of your line of vision.
Joe set his cheap alarm clock, be up early and on the phone, he felt that rush of adrenaline that said,
“We’re racing to the conclusion.”
He wondered if he still had what it took for the game, McCarthy’s gibe that he’d lost his edge rattled.