“Are you saying, unofficially, that it might be a good idea for me to fuck him?”
“Are you wearing a wire or something?”
“No, Boss.”
“That sounds like the kind of question somebody who was wearing a wire would ask.”
“I’m not. You want to search me?”
“We’re not going there, Detective. All I’m saying is that you have a certain amount of personal discretion in how you handle this. Suffice it to say, if you’re ever asked in court whether you fucked him, the answer had better be an emphatic no. Never mind what Daltry says.”
“I think I get the picture.”
“Good. Just remember that I ordered you never to fuck him.”
“You did? I missed that.”
“Well, I’m ordering you now, just in case you’re ever asked about that in court.”
“Got it.”
“You’re going to need to wear a wire.”
“All right.”
“The new equipment is very good: hard to detect and it works like a charm.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“You can actually wear the microphone in your hair, in a whatayacallit.”
“A barrette?”
“Yeah, that. Or even glued to your scalp, under your hair.”
“So, even if I took all my clothes off, I would still be wired?”
“That’s an extreme example, but yes.”
“What is it we want to learn about Daltry? Whether he had the woman killed?”
“Somehow I don’t think he’s going to confess to you. What we want to know is who he got to do it. The guy cut off this woman’s head in a fit of rage, and that doesn’t square with a hired pro. Maybe it’s somebody who’s Daltry’s friend, or something. We’re looking for suspects so we can work their alibis and see who was available to run out to New Jersey and commit this heinous act.”
“How soon do I start?”
“Just as soon as you’ve researched Daltry.”
“I can do that in a few minutes, on the Internet.”
“Okay, this evening, then.”
“What am I going to have for backup?”
“I’m putting four detectives on this. Who’s your partner? I forget.”
“Bernstein.”
“And what’s your last name again?”
“Bernstein.”
“You’re not married to your partner, are you?”
“Nope. No relation.”
“Okay, Bernstein and four other detectives.”
“Do I get to choose?”
“I get to choose.”
“Who do you choose, Boss?”
“You get started on the Internet thing, and I’ll see who doesn’t have enough work to do.”
“Can I make a request?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I have another woman as one of the four?”
“Why?”
“Because I think a woman who was listening to me on a wire might understand better what I’m thinking than a bunch of guys. She could also cover me in, say, a bar without attracting attention. Cops have a way of looking like cops.”
“You’ve got a point. Okay, pick one of the other women in the squad.”
“Shelly Pointer.”
“Okay, you’ve got Pointer; you can have her partner, too. Go tell her.”
“Thanks, Boss.” Detective Willa Bernstein got up and left.
She found Detective Shelly Pointer in the ladies’ room. Pointer was an attractive, cafe-au-lait black woman of average height with a better-than-average body. “Hey, Shelly.”
“Hey, Willa.”
“You and I have got an assignment.”
“What, together?”
“Yeah.”
“What about my partner?”
“He’s on it, too.”
“What’s the assignment?”
“You ever heard of Devlin Daltry?”
“The sculptor?”
“Right.”
“Sure.”
“He’s suspected of persuading somebody to cut off a girl’s head. Bacchetti wants me to find out who he got to do it.”
“Do you have to fuck him?”
“I don’t think Bacchetti cares one way or the other, but if I do, I’m supposed to deny it. I’ll be wearing a wire, and I want you on the other end of it, not just a bunch of guys.”
“When do we start?”
“Right now. Let’s get on the Internet and see what we can find out about Daltry.”
“Lead the way.”
The two women headed toward Willa’s desk and her computer.
“Willa,” Pointer said, “are you going to fuck him?”
“Shelly, I don’t even know if he’s nice yet.”
50
Gus Castiglione sat quietly in his cell on Rikers Island, reading the Daily News sports section. Abell rang, and there was the sound of a hundred cells being electronically unlocked. What surprised Gus was that his cell door opened as well.
He had been in protective custody since arriving at Rikers, and his meals had been brought to him. He got an hour’s exercise daily in an empty yard, and he showered alone daily while a guard watched. He sat and stared at the open cell door, uncertain what to do.
A guard walked by. “Get your ass to lunch, Castiglione,” he said as he passed.
“But…” Gus started to say.
The guard banged his nightstick on the bars. “I said, get your ass to lunch!”
Gus sighed, folded his newspaper, tossed it on his bunk and joined the line of prisoners shuffling past his cell. It would make a nice change, having somebody to talk to over a meal. The line stopped moving while the barred door that led to the dining hall was opened. Gus heard a slight commotion behind him and started to turn to see what was happening. Before he could move he felt a searing pain in his back, near his spine. He managed to make half a turn, and he saw a small, wiry man he knew holding a bloody homemade shiv.
“Skinny?” he managed to say, before the man shoved the knife into his chest. His legs turned to water, and he hit the floor hard. Something warm and wet flowed past his cheek on the concrete floor. It got very noisy, then the sound went away.
Dierdre Monahan was in the chief deputy D.A.’s office when his phone rang and he picked it up. “It’s for you,” he said, handing her the receiver.
“Monahan,” she said. She listened to what the voice on the other end of the line was saying, and she felt herself turning white. She asked some questions, then hung up.
“Dierdre,” her boss said, “you look weird. You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“I hope not.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Gus Castiglione is dead.”
“What?”
“He got knifed at Rikers.”
“Didn’t you put him into protective custody?”
“Yes, but for some reason his cell opened at lunch call, and he went to the dining hall, or at least he started out for the dining hall. Somebody put a shiv into him twice. They’ve got a suspect, a little rat named Skinny diSalvo, who’s awaiting trial on a gambling charge, but, of course, nobody saw anything.”
“I want an investigation of how that cell door got opened,” the chief said.
“Somebody got bought,” Dierdre replied, “and I don’t think we’re going to find out who.”
“You’ve still got that other witness, what’s his name?”
“Fisher, Herbert Fisher.”
“Is he in Rikers?”
“No, I’ve got him in a safe house, a hotel.”
“You’d better make sure nothing happens to him.”
“Right,” she said. “I have to go make some calls.”
Herbie had been in the hotel for nearly a whole day, now, and he didn’t like it. The bed was hard, the food from room service was lousy, the TV in the bedroom was too small, and the two cops who were always with him hogged the bigger one in the sitting room.
One of the cops opened the door. “You okay, Herbie?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Good idea,” the cop said. “I was gonna mention it to you.”
Herbie got out of his pajamas, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he started getting dressed.