The detectives woke me, two wrung-out looking guys in their early fifties. They made me get out of the car and show ID, then they asked me a lot of questions and got annoyed when I answered only a few of them. They put on a little theater for my benefit: one guy was Menace, the other was Earnest Concern. But they were tired, and it was a halfhearted effort, and we all knew it. They were just wrapping up, thinking about cuffing me, when Tom Neary arrived, picking his way through the crowd of vehicles, uniforms, and onlookers. Eddie Sikes and Juan Pritchard drifted in behind him. They looked like they’d been sleeping in their clothes.
They all showed ID, and Neary spoke to the detectives while Sikes, Pritchard, and I stood around. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit me while we waited, and I listed heavily to port. Sikes and Pritchard steadied me, and I sat back down in the squad car. Neary kept talking. The cops listened in silence, and eventually everyone started to nod. Then we all went to the station house. I rode with the cops; Neary and company followed. They didn’t cuff me and they didn’t search me, but there was nothing to be found now. The manila envelope was safe with Juan Pritchard, who’d tucked it deftly into the folds of his topcoat when I’d passed it to him.
The station house was small and too warm and filled with the smell of burnt coffee. We sat in a room of green painted cinderblock, in beige metal chairs at a beige metal table, and we waited. I drank a Coke and put my head down on the table. Neary shook me when the lawyers came: Mike Metz and an attractive, fortyish, black woman I didn’t know-a Brill lawyer. A couple of feds were right behind them. I didn’t recognize them, but the Brill people did.
Neary explained our operation downtown, and Sikes told them how I’d gone after Mills. I picked it up from there, telling them how I’d followed Mills to Trautmann’s place, and what had happened inside. I took them through it about ten times. I told them that I’d started the kitchen fire while melting off the plastic cuffs, and that the shooting had made it worse. I kept the part about torching the boxes to myself. And I said not a word about Nassouli or Pierro. The Brill boys sang backup as necessary. They’d gotten my cell phone calls, and when they knew where I was going they’d headed for Bellerose. Once out of Manhattan, they’d run smack into a two-hour traffic jam.
The cops asked about my client. Mike answered for me, and they didn’t ask again. After the sixth or seventh telling, the feds started to horn in with questions of their own. This ticked the cops off, and started them wondering aloud about the feds’ interest in all of this. The feds didn’t like that, and so began a major pissing contest. Somewhere in the third round, they decided we could go, with the usual warnings to stay available.
In the parking lot, I retrieved the envelope from Pritchard. Nobody asked any questions about it. Mike drove Neary and me into the city. I sat in back and put my head against the window and watched the snow come down and become a brown slurry on the road. They might have spoken to me from up front, but if they did I didn’t answer.
They took me to the St. Vincent’s ER, which would soon start awarding me frequent flyer miles. The people there checked my eyes, my reflexes, and my balance and took pictures of my head and my ribs. The attending looked at the films and told me that while I had no fractures, I did have a mild concussion. He changed the dressings on my wrists and said the scarring wouldn’t be bad. He gave me some drugs and some ointment, and he cut me loose. Mike and Neary were waiting to take me home.
“No talking,” I said.
“In the morning,” Mike said. I nodded.
“Long day,” Neary said. I nodded.
“Some nice work,” he said.
“Not nice enough.” The car pulled up in front of my building, and I went inside. It was just past midnight.
It was a sunny, breezy Wednesday morning, nearly forty degrees out, and all that was left of the snow in my neighborhood were wet streets and the brief, bright showers of melt that scattered from the buildings when the wind blew. It was ten o’clock, and I was sitting in a deep chair with my feet propped up, wearing jeans and a turtleneck, drinking coffee and watching the glittering drops fall past my window. Mike Metz had arrived thirty minutes before and Tom Neary a few minutes later. They were showered, shaved, and suited up, well groomed if not well rested. They sat at my table, drinking coffee and talking. I knew I should be paying attention, but it seemed like too much work. Finally, Neary dragged me into it.
“The MWB liquidation committee is in an uproar, and their lawyers are chomping at the bit. No big surprise. The folks at Parsons are shit-ting bricks and circling the wagons-rounding up as many lawyers of their own as they can find, and trying to figure out what their liability insurance covers. And they’re mightily pissed at Brill, for not giving them a heads-up on this. My management could give a shit, though. We’ve come out of this heroes, for having uncovered the whole thing. Truth is, they’re thanking god none of our people were involved,” he said. He turned toward me. “By the way, they think we owe you one on this. I explained that this just put you slightly less in my debt.”
“Good you’re watching out for me,” I said. “Speaking of your people, what was up with Compton? Why was she so jumpy? She was looking like our guy until Mills ran.”
“Your call scared hell out of her, but not because of anything to do with this shit,” Neary said. “She spotted the tail up by Wall Street, turned around, and walked right up to me-pissed as hell. I thought she was going to slug me. Wanted to know what the fuck was going on. I said I wanted to know the same thing. We jawed at each other for a while, and then she tells me she’s going up to Fulton Street, to see her lawyer. Seems she got this weird phone call and she thinks it’s her husband-estranged husband-harassing her again. Turns out she’s been trying to divorce the guy for nearly a year and he’s turned into a real creep. Calls her at all hours, heavy breathing, bizarre accusations, follows her around. She thought this was more of the same.”
“You tell her what was up?” I asked.
“Some of it. At first she was happy it had nothing to do with her hubby. Then she got pissed at me all over again for suspecting her. I smoothed it over some, but I’ve still got work to do there. I don’t want to lose her,” Neary said.
“And Vetter?” I asked.
“Just a slacker, out for a long coffee break, best we could tell,” Neary said. He yawned and rubbed his hands over his face.
“You hear anything from Queens?” I asked Mike.
“Not since last night. They said they’d call when they had a body or if there was any word on Trautmann, but I imagine I’m not first on their list,” he answered. He got up and filled his coffee mug. “You doing okay?” he asked. “Ready for your guests?”
“Ready enough,” I said, and it was true. The ache in my ribs had mostly subsided, as long as I didn’t move too much or too quickly. Ditto the pain from my burnt wrists. The nausea was gone, the dizziness was on the wane, and my headache had dulled and shrunk. Best of all, I didn’t feel quite as stupid as I had last night. But one night of sleep was just a down payment. I was still brutally tired, and anxious to get the parade of people in and out of here so I could get back to bed. The intercom buzzed. Neary went to the wall unit.
“They’re here,” he said.
Shelly DiPaolo was first through the door. She took off her coat and looked the place over like a realtor. She was wearing a snug black suit with a short skirt and high black pumps. Her nails and lips were plum colored. Her perfume made itself at home. She nodded her head and gave me a chilly smile.
“Nice bat cave,” she said. I nodded back.
“Help yourself to coffee,” I said.
Fred Pell was behind her. He took three unwilling steps inside and stopped, looking like he was trying to find a corner to piss in. His coat stayed on, and his hands stayed in his pockets. The closest he came to a greeting was: “I guess a trust fund comes in handy, huh?” I wasn’t any happier having him at my place than he was being here, but I was too tired to do more than ignore him. DiPaolo perched herself on one of my kitchen stools and crossed her nice legs.