“I talked to Jorge, the handsome pizza biker,” Pearl said. “Shook something loose.” She told him what Jorge had revealed about Joe Galin and his business relationship with the drug dealer Vernon Lake.
“We need to find out what hospital Lake’s in,” Quinn said
“That’s what I was up all night doing. He’s in Roosevelt, room six-twenty. I told them I was police, but since I wasn’t there in person to flash my shield, the nurse I was talking to clammed up. I called back later and got a different nurse, told her I was Lake’s sister Veronica. She told me the name was familiar, that she must have heard Lake talking about me.”
“He’s liable to rabbit outta there if he hears about your call.”
“Lake’s not going anywhere. He’s got two bullet holes in him and he’s on painkillers.”
“He gonna die on us?”
“Might. The nurse that thought I was his sister sounded somber, but she wouldn’t tell me much about Lake’s condition over the phone. He’s listed as critical but stable.”
“Stable for now,” Quinn said.
“Yeah.”
“We’ve gotta get over there.”
“Yeah.”
“Leave now, and I’ll be at the hospital waiting for you.”
He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Pearl would know he wasn’t on his way to work if he was closer to Roosevelt than she was.
“I’ll be there soon as I can,” she said. “You take your time. Finish your doughnut.”
“Bagel,” Quinn said.
“Whatever. They both have holes in the middle.”
She broke the connection.
Sarcasm?
“Work?” Zoe asked from the bed.
“ ’Fraid so. A policeman’s lot.” He padded barefoot over to the bed and kissed her. “Sorry. I was looking forward to us going out and having breakfast.”
“I understand,” she said, maneuvering her body so she was seated on the edge of the mattress. She tossed the wadded sheets behind her toward the center of the bed as she stood up. “You go ahead and get dressed, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“I won’t. Just a bagel.”
25
When Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman asked at the nurses’ station for Vernon Lake’s room number, they soon found themselves face-to-face with a uniformed cop named Butterfield who knew Fedderman from his NYPD days. Butterfield had bad symmetry; he was built square and had a round, angelic face. The crow’s-feet at the corners of his blue eyes and a head of thinning gray hair suggested he had to be near retirement age.
After exchanging pleasantries with Fedderman, he said, “You wanna see Lake, I’ll have to take you to him. He’s been charged and read his rights, but maybe it’s his last rites he needs.” A nearby nurse behind the counter had overheard and glared at him, then continued bustling about.
“We heard he’d been shot,” Quinn said. “Bad?”
“Depends on whose point of view.”
“Lake’s.”
“He’ll get over the two bullet holes in him. What he hasn’t been told yet is he’s got pancreatic cancer and won’t live more’n three months.”
“Jesus,” Pearl said.
Butterfield shrugged. “It’d be easier to feel sorry for him if he hadn’t been living off kids’ drug money for years.”
“He in any condition to have a conversation?” Quinn asked.
“Sure. I wouldn’t say he’s eager to leap outta bed, or even able, but he’s conscious and not in a lot of pain.”
Butterfield led them to Room 620 and then told them to go on in and he’d wait out in the hall.
It was a small room with only one visitor’s chair, and that with a stack of folded linens on it. Sunlight sneaked in through slatted blinds. It smelled as if someone had been hanging around there chewing spearmint gum.
The three detectives stood close to Vernon Lake’s bed as he regarded them with rheumy brown eyes. He was an African American man in his thirties, with a powerful upper body and a sharply defined face of ebony planes made darker by black stubble. The bed was cranked up so he was almost in a sitting position. His midsection was swathed in white gauze, as was his right bicep. An IV unit with two plastic packets of medication hanging from its metal stand was feeding clear liquids into a vein on the back of his left hand. His wrists were handcuffed to the steel bedrails.
He didn’t smile as he looked up at them. “You ain’t doctors.” He sounded tired, but didn’t slur his words, obviously not too drugged up with painkillers to know what he was saying.
“Healers of society,” Quinn said, flashing his shield.
“Not my society.”
“We got some questions for you,” Pearl said.
“Then maybe I oughta have my lawyer here.”
“You got one?” Fedderman asked.
“Public defender. Name of Sophie Murray.”
“She’s a tough one,” Quinn said. “You might wanna call her at a certain point. All we want from you are a few answers about Joseph Galin.”
“Don’ know him.”
“He’s the guy you paid for protection while you were dealing. Back when he was a cop and we were all younger and better looking.”
Lake pressed his head back into his pillow and said nothing.
“We can offer you a deal,” Quinn said, “if you give us some answers and don’t play the hard ass. You know Galin’s been shot and killed. Maybe you even did it.”
“Talk that way,” Lake said, “an’ I want my lawyer.”
“Hear me out before you decide. We’re not interested in pinning Galin on you. We know you’re innocent. You know you’re going up for a long time on the drug charges, not to mention trading shots with another dealer. He’s gonna be okay, by the way, just like you.”
“I been tol’ he was dead.”
“Then somebody’s jerking you around.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time for that. All cops do, ain’t it, jerk us plain folks around?”
“Some cops sometimes,” Quinn admitted. “Not me, not now. All we want’s some straight information about Galin. He’s dead now, so if you owed him something, it doesn’t matter.”
“I din’ owe that man nothin’.”
“We want Galin’s killer,” Quinn said. “We’ve got no interest in you otherwise. What we’d like to know is, was he dirty?”
“Why should I—” Lake decided in mid-sentence to be silent. His powerful neck muscles flexed as he scrunched his head farther back into his pillow. He was obviously going to be stubborn.
“ ’S’cuse me, please.” Quinn stuck his head outside the room’s door and said something to Butterfield, then ducked back in.
Lake glared at him without moving his head. “Don’ matter what you do. Till I get—”
“Shut up,” Quinn said, hardening his tone. “Be a smart asshole for once and shut up till you know the game and decide whether to play.”
Lake seemed to relax, but only slightly. This was the kind of cop talk he knew. His breathing was loud and rhythmic in the quiet room.
There was a knock on the door. Quinn went to it and was handed something, then closed the door and came back to stand again by Lake’s bed. He was holding a Bible.
“You a religious shit-head?” he asked Lake.
“Long-ago Baptist, if it be any of your business.”
“I’m a religious man, through and through. It’s why I’m a cop. I don’t miss church on Sundays, and I try to live by the good book. You believe me?”
“Don’ believe a thing you say.”
“That hurts me. I’m gonna offer you a trade. You don’t want it, then we can do the lawyer thing and you can talk or go mum or whatever, but the deal will be off the table.”
“That legal?”
“For Christ’s sake, I’m a cop.”
“Yeah, that’s what I be thinkin’.”