“He kept souvenirs from all his victims, right?” I reminded Fishbein. “That’s why the cases against him are such slam dunks. Well, where’s the souvenir from this crime?”
The DA looked as if my breath stank of raw sewage. How dare I throw a monkey wrench into his plans for higher office? Reyes had already translated my questions to her client. Ivan laughed, bowing to me as if to say thanks for the reminder. He responded quickly, giving what sounded like a street address to his lawyer.
“He says her jewelry is hidden in a bandanna behind the boiler of the building he was living in when you arrested him.”
“Anything else, Mr. Prager?” the DA asked.
The court officer didn’t need to be told twice, and Ivan the Terrible was gone. Reyes, still a little shaken, left shortly thereafter. Fishbein was on the phone to one of his investigators, giving the person on the other end of the line the alleged location of Moira’s jewelry. When I started to head out, Larry shook his head no. We were to stay until the DA was done with us.
“So, Mr. Prager, Captain McDonald tells me you’re the one who worked this little scam,” Fishbein said as he put down the phone.
“I had help.”
“So I hear.” The DA frowned at Larry. “So I hear. And if we find the jewelry where that miscreant has indicated, this will be a very good day for all of us. Captain McDonald also tells me you’re Francis Maloney’s son-in-law.”
“I have that dubious pleasure, yes.”
“With all due respect, how is that nasty old prick?”
“The same, only more so.”
Fishbein understood completely. He then turned his attention to Larry, speaking in vaguely threatening generalities. A police officer, especially one in the Intelligence Division, could get in a lot of trouble for sharing files and information with unauthorized civilians. At worst, he might lose his job and pension or do time. Even the sweetest prosecutor in town would have to ensure that such an officer would have no possibility of future advancement. On the other hand, such an officer might find it very helpful to his career to have a borough district attorney as a booster and ally. I interrupted Fishbein’s rambling.
“Can I use your phone?”
The DA eyed me suspiciously. “It might be unwise to prematurely-”
“An up-and-coming prosecutor would be smart to stay and listen to my conversation,” I said, parroting Fishbein’s tone.
“Dial nine for an outside line.”
Thomas Geary answered the phone. He had regained his composure from this morning and managed not to chew my head off before asking the purpose of my call.
“I’m sitting in a conference room adjoining the office of Robert Fishbein, the district attorney for Queens County.”
Geary was unenthusiastic. “I’m well acquainted with Groucho Marx’s stunt double, Mr. Fishbein.”
“I believe he has some news for you,” I said, and handed the DA the phone.
When I did, Larry McDonald gave me the thumbs-up.
“Yes, Thomas,” Fishbein said, all the threat gone from his voice, “it’s good to speak to you again as well.”
For the next several minutes, Larry and I were treated to a somewhat skewed, if not completely inaccurate, description of the day’s events. Though the DA was quick to highlight, even exaggerate, his role, he was savvy enough not to go too far over the top. After all, he had no way of knowing how much Geary or Brightman knew. Having concluded his chat with my employer and looking rather too pleased with himself, Fishbein handed the phone back to me.
“You did well, Moe,” Geary complimented, sounding justifiably somber. “Though I am, for obvious reasons, relieved and happy at the results you have produced, I am at the same time sad for Miss Heaton’s family.”
“Watch it, Mr. Geary, you wouldn’t want me to get the impression you actually have a heart.”
“We can’t have that, can we? I must confess to having had my doubts about you, but I could not be more pleased. You and the men who helped you will be well rewarded for their efforts. I would ask only that you not share this information with anyone until I’ve had an opportunity to-”
“I understand, but there are a few people who deserve to know. They’ll keep it quiet if I ask them.”
“To this point, your judgment has proved correct. I see no reason to distrust it now. On behalf of Steven and myself, please convey my appreciation. And, Moe, please ask them to make themselves available for the next several days. There’s likely to be a lot of publicity connected to the resolution of-”
“I understand.”
“I thought you might. Thank you again.”
Larry and I waited with the DA until the call came in from the field. Though the detectives on the other end of the line could not be sure the jewelry they found was Moira Heaton’s, it was, as Ivan had said, wrapped in a bandanna and hidden behind the old boiler. I half expected Fishbein to break into song or tap-dance on the conference table. I asked Larry to make the calls to the others.
“Where you going?” Larry asked.
“To tell a man his daughter’s really dead.”
Glitters was doing brisk business when I walked in. Rocky was working the door. I guess maybe Adonis was out getting his body bronzed or something. With his face so distorted by scar tissue, it was difficult to tell if the ex-pug recognized me or not. I didn’t leave it to chance.
“Hey, remember me? You tried putting your right hand through my rib cage a few nights ago before your boy took batting practice on my knees.”
“About that, John, he-”
“I don’t really give a shit, Rocky. Let’s just say you owe me one. Get John. I’ll be waiting at the bar.” “Here.”
He gave me my ten dollars back.
I didn’t have long to wait. People are usually prompt on payday, and John Heaton was no exception. Unfortunately for him, he was going to get a bonus he hadn’t counted on. When he sat down next to me, I said nothing, but continued nursing my beer. I removed two white envelopes from my jacket pocket and slid them along the bar to Heaton.
“One’s for you, the other’s for Domino.”
He had the good taste and good sense not to count it out in the open. Apparently, he still hadn’t picked up today’s papers. I ordered him a drink.
“Can’t drink while I’m on,” he said, but not in time to stop the barmaid from fixing his whiskey.
“Ever stop you while you were on the job?”
“No, but this ain’t the job. Here they’re fuckin’ serious about it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Heaton,” I said as the barmaid placed his scotch down in front of him. “They’ll make an exception today.”
He didn’t touch it. “Oh yeah, and why is that?”
“Because the guy who murdered Moira just signed a full confession.”
He froze in place. Only his face moved, and involuntarily, streams of emotions washing over his bloated red countenance so quickly I couldn’t keep up. Finally, it was just a blank mask. “What?”
“You read the papers?”
“Not since-no, not in a long time.”
“Drink your drink, John.”
He did, in a gulp. I tapped the bar in front of him. The barmaid poured another. He drank. After the third, he was primed.
“It’s ugly, huh?”
“Very.”
“Tell me.”
I didn’t argue with him. He’d find out anyway. He was pretty stoic about it until I described how Alfonseca had disposed of Moira’s body in pieces off City Island. That he couldn’t bear and slammed his forehead down full force onto the bar. It split open like the skin of an overripe fruit, blood pouring down into his eyes, over his cheeks, swallowing up his tears. I told the barmaid to get Rocky. There was little doubt in my mind he’d know how to stem the flow of blood. As for the rest of it, there was nothing anyone could do to help.
Chapter Ten
I’d been to Mets games less well attended than this press conference. It seemed every media outlet in the free world had sent at least one reporter and cameraman. Some of the local TV stations sent both their police beat reporter and their political analyst. Pete Hamill and Jimmy Breslin were there too. To say there was a bit of a carnival atmosphere in the crowd would have been an understatement. On its face, this was about Moira Heaton and Ivan Alfonseca. Believing that was like believing Christ’s last supper was about the matzo.