"Hey! I remember him. Is that what this is all about? Hey, look, man that is one sexy little kid, you better believe…I mean, he loved lapping it up…It's not like I started him off or anything…"
I saw red dots in front of my eyes where his face should have been. I gripped the pistol handle so hard my hand throbbed, hearing the sound of the shot in my mind, willing myself not to pull the trigger.
"Don't!" the fat man screamed, clasping his hands in front of his chest like he was praying. I heard a sharp hiss from the darkness where Max was standing, and then a sound like a meat ax driving into bone. The fat man's neck snapped to the left-and stayed there. Max released him and the body slumped to the ground.
The Mole dropped to his knees, doing his job even though we all knew it was over. "Gone," he said.
"The jailhouse or the graveyard," I'd told the Prof. Now it really didn't matter if the old lady upstairs was dead. I gestured Max to pick up the fat man's body and we all went back downstairs. I could feel the clock ticking in my head-the boiler was going to go. "He tried to escape the flames-ran up the stairs. Slipped and fell. Broke his neck," I said to myself. We hauled the fat man halfway up the stairs, to the place where they started to curve. Leaned him across the railing and pushed him over, face first. The silent basement swallowed the sound of his fall.
"Go!" I said to the Mole, pointing to the back of the house. Max's shadow followed him back into the basement.
I pushed the button on the radio transmitter, telling the Prof I'd be hitting the front gate any minute. I still had a little piece of time left to finish what I had to do-even when the boiler went off it wouldn't reach the first floor for a while. I ran back upstairs to the big office room, grabbing handfuls of the filth, throwing it all around the hallway, dusting every room with pictures and film. I pushed a few of the cassettes back in the safe and slammed it closed, thankful for the gloves I was wearing-no time to wipe everything down.
I checked the bedroom. The woman was still lying on the bed, like she hadn't moved. Maybe she never would.
I charged down the stairs, the gun in front of me, my ears sucking in every sound, waiting for the sirens. I heard a crackling sound from someplace in the basement.
I opened the front door a narrow slit, poked my head out. The street was quiet. I made sure the door wasn't going to lock behind me, patted my pockets to check I had everything, and charged for the fence. I dropped down on the other side-the driver's door was hanging open. I dove inside and the Prof leaped out of the way-he had the car in gear, holding the brake pedal down with his hand.
I looked over my shoulder-the basement windows were full of flame. I heard an engine jump into life somewhere down the street. Wolfe's surveillance team shot straight past us, heading toward the house. I kept rolling smoothly, flipping on the headlights when I turned the corner.
The Plymouth was waiting where it was supposed to be. Nobody was following, so I flashed the lights and Michelle pulled in behind me. We took the Throgs Neck Bridge over to the Bronx, pulling off the road just past the tolls, doing the same number with the jumper cables just in case.
I left the Prof to watch the cars, pulling everyone else into the shadows.
"I got it," I told Michelle. "Anybody answer when you called?"
"Sure did," she replied. "It was a man.
"No, it wasn't," I told her, lighting a cigarette for the first time since we got out. "Any trouble?" I asked the others.
"Just the fence," said the Mole, rubbing his side. He and Michelle went back to the cars.
Max was still in the dark cloth, but the hood was off his head. He watched the Prof approach us, made the gesture of a man taking a picture, moved his hand in a "come here" sign. He wanted the Prof to see the picture. I held it out to him. The mercury-vapor lamps they use on the bridge threw a cold orange light down on all of us. Max held the picture in both hands, waiting for the Prof to look and see what he wanted. He tapped his finger against the picture of the man in the clown suit-then his head suddenly twisted to one side.
"You understand?" I asked the Prof. He had been with us-he had a right to know.
The little man nodded his head. "It means the clown went down."
94
THE MOLE took the Cadillac back to the Bronx. Max got back in the trunk-explaining his night-stalker getup to a passing cop would be too much trouble. We found a turnaround and headed home.
"I'll have the money in a couple of days," I said to the Prof. "Where should I drop you?"
"It's too late for the Men's Shelter-let me try Grand Central."
"Michelle?"
"Home, baby."
I drove the Plymouth into the warehouse. Immaculata appeared while I was opening the trunk for Max to get out.
"It's done," I told her.
Immaculata examined Max like he was a piece of jewelry she was going to buy someday-her eyes going over every inch. She touched his chest, feeling his body, making sure. Max suffered in silence, his face stony. But his eyes were soft.
I bowed to them both. As I backed out of the warehouse, I could see Immaculata patting her stomach, gesturing to Max-the life-taker was a life-maker too.
95
I WAS all over the midday papers. I liked the Post's version best.
FIRE REVEALS KIDDIE PORN RING!
A fire late last night that killed a Queens man and hospitalized his wife led startled firefighters to discover the couple was operating a "major kiddie-porn ring" from the comfort of their Little Neck mansion, police said.
Killed in the blaze was George Browne, 44, who lived in the house at 71 Cheshire Drive with his wife Bonnie. Mrs. Browne, 41, was taken to nearby Deepdale General Hospital suffering from smoke inhalation.
Firemen, alerted by a telephone call to the emergency 911 number, arrived shortly after the fire ignited at about 10:00 p.m., and had the blaze under control by 10:45.
It was while they were examining the damage, which a Fire Department spokesman called "moderate," that firemen made the shocking discovery of "literally hundreds of kiddie-porn photographs," the spokesman said. The firemen immediately notified the police, she added.
Captain Louis DeStefano of the 11th Precinct said that in addition to the Polaroid photographs, a "substantial amount" of undeveloped film and "several videotape cassettes" were also seized.
"I'm shocked. I'm absolutely shocked," a stunned neighbor, Elsie Lipschitz, told the Post. "They kept to themselves a lot, but they were always very polite when you saw them on the street. I can't believe it," she said.
Although the Fire Department and the couple's neighbors were caught off guard, the Post has learned that the $450,000 house at the end of the quiet cul-de-sac has been under police surveillance and that George Browne was arrested twice for child molesting in recent years.
In 1978 Browne, who listed his occupation as "entertainer," was arrested on felony molestation charges that were eventually dropped. Two years later, he was arrested again, and ultimately pleaded guilty to endangering the welfare of a minor-a five-year-old boy from upstate, according to police sources.
Browne's charred body was discovered at the bottom of the basement stairway. An apparent broken neck has led cops to theorize he was trying to escape the fire-which may have begun with an explosion in the boiler, according to firemen-when he was overcome by smoke and fell down the stairway. An autopsy is pending.
Among the first cops to arrive on the scene were detectives conducting round-the-clock surveillance for the City-Wide Special Victims Bureau. Assistant District Attorney Eva Wolfe, who heads the bureau, would only say that the surveillance was "part of an ongoing investigation." She declined to say when the investigation began.