“I know I can dial it direct,” Reardon said into his phone. “I’ve dialed it direct three times, and all I get is nothing. Nothing, yes. Zilch. Silence.” He listened, and then said, “Well, could you please try it for me?”
“Ballistics and the telephone company ought to go partners,” Gianelli said.
Haggerty, one of the Fifth’s clerks, wearing a blue V-neck sweater over his uniformed shirt and a bulky blue cardigan over that, came into the office carrying a sheet of paper. “Here’s the flyer went out,” he said to Reardon. “It ain’t much for anybody to go on. No year, no plate, just a brown Benz.”
“Who got it?” Reardon asked.
“Every precinct in the city.”
“I want the whole tri-state area covered.”
“Yeah. I’m here,” Gianelli said into his phone. “I been here forever.”
“Won’t do no good anyway, Bry.” Haggerty said. “This’s the week before Christmas, today’s already the eighteenth. What cop out there is gonna be looking for cars?”
“A what?” Gianelli said into the phone. “I never heard of such a thing. All right, give it to me. Nice and slow, please.”
“What they’ll be looking for is presents for their wives,” Haggerty said.
“Send it out, anyway,” Reardon said.
“Or their girlfriends,” Haggerty said. “They won’t be looking for no brown Benz ain’t even got a year or a plate.”
“Hello?” Reardon said into the phone, and waved Haggerty out. “Is this the Café de la Daine?”
“Out, bien sur,” the voice on the other end said.
“This is Detective Reardon, I’m calling from the Fifth P.D.U. in New York. I’d like to speak to Mr. John D’Annunzio, please. Is he there?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“May I speak to him, please?”
“Un moment, s’il vous plait.”
“Accommodate the what?” Gianelli said into his phone. “Well, was it? Then what are you wasting my time for?” He paused and then said, “What’s the capacity? Right. Anything else? Okay, thanks.” He slammed the receiver down on the cradle.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said.
“Mr. D’Annunzio?” Reardon said.
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Reardon in Manhattan...”
“Yes?”
“I’m assuming you were notified of your brother’s death...”
“Yes?”
“There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“What questions, Mr. Reardon?”
“I understand he went to Washington on the fourteenth of December. Did he go down there to see you, Mr. D’Annunzio?”
“Yes, he did.” D’Annunzio said.
“That would have been a Sunday...”
“Yes, he came to the restaurant. We’re open for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Why did he come to see you, Mr. D’Annunzio? Can you tell me that?”
Farmer came limping out of his office. He put his hands on his hips and listened to Reardon’s end of the conversation.
“Did he say who’d made this loan to him?” Reardon asked.
Farmer stood listening.
“What?” Reardon said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize... well, what would be a convenient time for you?” He listened and then said, “I’ll try you later then, thanks.”
He replaced the receiver on the cradle, looked up at Farmer.
“D’Annunzio went there to borrow seventy-five hundred bucks. Told his brother he needed the money to meet a loan.”
“Who from?” Farmer asked.
“He doesn’t know. They’re setting up for dinner, he wants me to call him back in an hour or so.” He turned to Gianelli. “What’d Ballistics say?”
“Is anyone on this squad working anything but the D’Annunzio murder?” Farmer asked.
“Priorities, boss,” Gianelli said.
“Priorities, my ass.”
“The slugs were nine millimeter Parabellums. The gun... just a second.” He looked at his notes. “Was a SIG P-210-5.”
“A what?” Farmer said.
“Foreign pistol. Made in Switzerland, imported here by H.F. Grieder. It can be made to accommodate the 7.65 cartridge, but this one wasn’t. The bullets were nine millimeters.”
“I never heard of such a gun,” Farmer said, and then turned at the sound of Hoffman’s voice in the corridor outside.
“This city.” Gianelli said, “you can pick up any gun you want for thirty-five cents.”
Three young Hispanics came into the squadroom. their hands cuffed behind them. Hoffman and Ruiz were directly behind them. In this precinct, the Hispanics could have been anything: Puerto Rican, Cuban. Dominican, Salvadoran, Colombian. To the cops, with the possible exception of Ruiz, they all looked alike. These Hispanics did, in fact, look alike. All of them light-skinned. Each of them sporting a sparse mustache over his upper lip. All in their mid-twenties. All wearing little black fedoras with narrow brims. One of them wore a brown leather jacket. The other two wore short cloth coats. They were all wearing pointed shoes; cockroach-kickers, the cops called them.
“Make yourselves comfortable, you bums,” Ruiz said.
“Don’t tell me I’ve actually got some working cops on this squad,” Farmer said.
“Caught them sticking up a jewelry store on Canal,” Hoffman said, and tossed three ski masks onto the desk. “This is what they were wearing.”
Reardon looked at the ski masks.
Sadie had seen three Puerto Ricans wearing ski masks on the night of the murder.
“But no Mercedes-Benz, your Honor,” Ruiz said.
“They don’t speak English,” Hoffman said.
“So they say,” Ruiz said. “Habla inglés, maricón?” he asked the one in the brown leather jacket.
“No, seňor policia,” the man replied.
“How about your pals here?” Ruiz said, and turned to the ones in the cloth coats. “Alguno de ustedes vagabundos habla ingles?”
The other two answered almost in unison, shaking their heads.
“No, nosotros no hablamos inglés.”
“Sit down,” Hoffman said, pointing. “Over there, on the bench.”
The men sat, their eyes wide. The one in the leather jacket glanced at a Pimp Squad poster on the wall.
Hoffman beckoned Reardon and Ruiz to the other side of the room, where Farmer was standing.
“The guys who killed D’Annunzio were speaking English,” he said.
“With an accent,” Reardon said.
“But not a Spanish accent,” Farmer said. “Your report...”
“It’s worth a shot, anyway,” Hoffman said. “The family mighta been too excited to tell what kind of accent. You want to take it from here, Bry?”
“Don’t blow it,” Farmer warned.
Reardon walked to the bench where the three Hispanics were sitting.
“Which one of you guys speaks English?” he asked.
The three men looked at him, bewildered.
“Nobody, huh?” He turned to Hoffman. “This might be real meat, Chick,” he said.
“Looks that way,” Hoffman said.
“You’re sure you don’t speak English, huh?”
No answer. Eyes open wide in their faces.
“Because if you do, you’d better tell me right now. Otherwise you’re gonna be in hot water, believe me.”
“Que dice el?” the one in the brown jacket asked Ruiz.
“Keep out of this, Alex,” Reardon said. “Okay, listen,” he said, hands on his hips. “A restaurant on Mulberry Street was held up this past Monday night. The owner was killed. You understand that?”