"Mike, you still there?" Emily said.
"Right here, Emily," I said. "Of course, I'll come get you. What time does your train get in?"
Chapter 43
NYC'S EVENING RUSH HOUR was just getting started by the time I bumper-to-bumpered it back under the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge toward my squad room.
I evil-eyed my vacation-robbing workplace, One Police Plaza, as I crawled across the span. The slab concrete cube of a building had been butt-ugly even before it was surrounded with guard booths and bomb-barrier planters post 9/11. Because traffic from the financial district had been rerouted due to all the security measures, some Chinatown businesspeople had raised a fuss and suggested that headquarters be moved to another area. I had my fingers crossed for Hawaii, but so far I hadn't heard anything.
Finally pulling off the bridge ramp onto the Avenue of the Finest, I spotted all the double-parked TV news vans. Since all the newsies and camera guys on the sidewalk beside them looked especially restless, I did myself a favor and decided to keep on going.
I drove a few blocks south and pulled over in front of a graffiti-scrawled deli on the corner of Madison and James. I got a coffee and one of those little Table Talk Pies and a Post, with its ever-subtle tabloid headline "WHO WILL BE NEXT?" on the front page.
Which turned out to be ironic because when I came back out onto the sidewalk, sitting on the hood of my car was Gary Aronson, the New York Post police beat reporter, who was probably responsible for the paper's headline. Like most crime reporters, Gary was ruthless. He claimed color blindness and dyslexia for his habit of ignoring crime scene tape.
So instead of heading back for my vehicle, I hooked a hard left and stepped into Jerry's Old School, an inner-city barbershop I sometimes used as a meeting spot with confidential informants.
And almost tripped over Cathy Calvin, the New York Times police beat reporter BlackBerry-ing by the door under a poster for the rapper Uncle Murda.
I glared over at the muscular owner, Jerry, giving some Chinese kid a fade.
"Is nothing sacred, my man?" I asked him as I did an immediate one-eighty back outside.
Calvin had exchanged her phone for a tape recorder by the time she caught up to me on the sidewalk.
"We have a bombing spree, a double murder that looks a lot like the Son of Sam, and now a girl is missing. Rumors are that all three are related. What's going on, Detective?"
As if I had the time to perform in the media circus.
"Didn't I blackball you?" I said as I picked up my pace.
"That was just for the last case," Calvin said.
"Finally," Aronson said, taking out his own recorder as he got off the hood of my Impala.
"I got this one, Gary," Calvin said, waving him away.
The Post reporter stepped away, making call-me gestures at Calvin. All the newspaper hacks who covered crime hung out together. They were as thick as thieves and just about as considerate when it came to cops. They actually had some space on the second floor of HQ called the Shack, where they came up with new ways to get cases and cops jammed up.
"No, she doesn't, Gary," I said, opening my car door. "You want info? Talk to the thirteenth floor, Cathy, my lass. I'm sure they'll be willing to hand over everything you need to know."
The thirteenth floor was home to the department's Public Information Office. Because of the logjam in the white-hot case, its under-pressure chief wanted certain vital body parts of mine for breakfast, last I'd heard.
"C'mon, Mike. I do news, not propaganda," Calvin said, rolling her eyes.
"That's not what Fox News says," I shot back before I jumped into the safety of my vehicle.
Chapter 44
I WAS STARTING THE CAR to make my escape when the passenger door opened, and Calvin hopped in beside me.
"What class of medication did you forget to take this morning?" I said.
"I'm screwed, Mike," she said, letting out a weary breath. "I'm not kidding. You don't understand how desperate things are in the paper biz right now. The city editor is waiting for any tiny excuse to clear some payroll. Can't you give me anything? I'll take a 'no comment' at this point."
"In that case, No comment," I said as I leaned across her and opened her door. "Good sob story, by the way. I almost fell for it. The first three times you used it. You should update it. Toss in a dying roommate or something."
"You really are heartless, aren't you?" Calvin said.
"Heartless, yes. A sucker, no," I said. "If it bleeds, it leads, right, Cathy? This one is most definitely bleeding. The last thing I'm worried about is your job security."
She gave me a thin smile.
"Fine, fine. I like you, too, by the way, Mike. Hard enough as it is to believe. What's that cologne you're wearing? I like it."
I sniffed. It was some Axe body soap one of my kids had left in the sand-covered shower back at Breezy. It actually did smell pretty good. I knew she was just yanking my chain to get an angle on the case. Or was she?
"Cathy, you seem like a nice enough young woman," I said. "You're educated. You dress nice. I thought covering cops was just a stepping-stone to better things. Is it the street cred? You have a thing for dead bodies? You ever ask yourself?"
"Come to dinner with me and find out, Mike," Calvin said, checking her makeup in my rearview. "I'll tell you the long, sad story of my life over a bottle of Irish wine. I'm partial to Jameson myself."
Then she gave me a naughty-girl stare for a few seconds. Cathy was a tall, slim blonde with soft green eyes. I couldn't help staring back.
"We won't even talk shop. I promise," she said, clicking off her tape recorder with a red-nailed thumb. She smiled. "Well, maybe just a teensy, weensy bit."
It was the click that did it. It snapped me back to what was left of my senses. What the hell was I doing or thinking? Attractive or not, Cathy was nuts and the enemy. Even if she wasn't, I had two young ladies on my dance card already. I needed three?
"Some other time, Calvin," I said. "If you haven't noticed, I'm a tad busy these days."
"Whatever you say, Detective," she said, getting out. She stopped for a moment on the sidewalk and turned slowly, giving me a good look at what I'd be missing.
"My phone is always on."
"I'm sure it is," I mumbled as I pretended to ignore her walking away.
Chapter 45
AFTER ANOTHER THREE FRUITLESS HOURS spent fishing through Son of Sam letters at my desk, I was toast. I was about to leave, when I received a call from Miriam telling me that the commissioner was on his way back from a speech in Philly and wanted me to brief him in person. So I stuck around for another two eye-melting hours at my desk, only to have Miriam call back to say that the Big Kahuna had actually changed his mind and I was free to go.
Tonight out in Breezy was the church-sponsored carnival we'd been looking forward to since our vacation began. For the past couple of weeks, I'd had this grammar-school romantic vision of taking Mary Catherine on all the rides, being next to her as she screamed and laughed, maybe winning her one of those stupid oversize teddy bears.
Traffic was light for a change, so I managed to get back to Breezy Point in just over an hour. Instead of going to the house, I drove straight over to St. Edmund's, hoping to catch the last of the summer carnival.
I was momentarily hopeful when I saw that the rides and tents were still there beside the rectory. But then I realized that all the lights were off. Even the fried-dough cart was shut up tight.
Talk about missing the party, I thought, as I idled beside the darkened parking lot. Even the carnies were snug in their beds fast asleep.