Kiss Her Goodbye

I frowned. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. And if you were trying to make an example out of a local do-gooder like Doolan, why the hell fake a suicide? You'd make him die nice and public, wouldn't you? Right down on the street?"

I wadded up the empty beer can and hit his wastebasket, no rim. "I don't kill to make examples. Any lesson I teach with a gun begins and ends with what comes out of the barrel."

He laughed. "Don't push it, Mike. You trying to talk me into thinking you're the same old tough guy, or yourself?"

"Fuck you, Pete," I said good-naturedly. "Where does Tony Tret come in?"

Pete shrugged. "He knew Doolan a little. They were both members of that fancy shooting club—the Enfilade?"

"Doolan and a mob kid like that? I can't picture it."

"Mike, Anthony Tretriano is cleaner than Windex. Every cop in town has gone through the former Little Tony's laundry and his garbage, and so has every reporter. That kid couldn't get in the Enfilade unless he was good and goddamn clean, and he damn sure couldn't get by Doolan's scrutiny, if he thought Anthony was up to something."

"You're calling him Anthony, too, like a guy I talked to over at the Enfilade did. Why?"

"No special reason. Doolan told me young Tretriano didn't like to be called Tony anymore. He associated it with times he'd rather forget."

"Some of us have a better memory than that. Did Pat know about Little Tony being in the same shooting club as Doolan and Jaynor?"

He tossed his beer can and missed the basket. So had several other of his cans. "I don't know. What makes me the expert? Ask Pat."

"I will. What I want from you is your blessing to go over Doolan's files in more detail."

"You think the police missed something?"

"Not necessarily, but I at least want to know what they know. And the other day I could only give 'em a cursory look. I got a hunch the answer, or parts of it, is in there."

"The answer to what?"

"Who faked Doolan's suicide. And why. You ever hear of a girl named Virginia Mathes? Ginnie Mathes?"

"Wasn't she a mugging victim the other night? It was in the News."

"Yeah. She was a mugging victim. What about another good-looking kid, Dulcie Thorpe? Ring any bells? Were either of those girls among Doolan's little stable of young fillies?"

I had only half of that out before Pete began shaking his head. "No, neither name means a thing to me, beyond that mugging squib. But you make it sound like Doolan was out laying pipe from here to Trenton. Man, I tell you, it was probably more a spectator sport with him. Who's this Thorpe girl, anyway?"

"She was a hooker. She's dead now. Maybe on purpose, or maybe because the guy who ran her down in a stolen Caddy missed me by an inch or two. You wanna see the black-and-blue place on my ass?"

This had turned the old boy a whiter shade of pale, whether from the escalating body count or the prospect of seeing my backside up close, I couldn't tell you.

Pete pushed back in his chair, pulled the top desk drawer open, and reached in back. He found what he was after and flipped it at me.

"Here's a key to the office. I'll be gone for the next two days, on a claim in Philly that requires eyes-on attention. So feel free to do what you want around here. Sleep on the floor for all I care."

"Thanks, pal."

"Any phone calls come in while you're here, take messages and jot 'em down. I don't have an answering machine."

"Thanks, Pete."

"No trouble," he said. "Now get out of here before you get piss and vinegar all over the place."

I got on my feet, exchanged smiles with the ex-copper, and headed for the door.

"And Mike! Try not to kill anybody in here. It's enough of a mess already."

After sixty years or so at the same stand, police HQ had a new address—One Police Plaza on Park Row near City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. The new digs were a thirteen-story pyramid of glass and concrete with the personality of a prefab garage. The upcoming move was probably why that documentary crew had been sniffing around the baroque old building on Centre Street the other day. At least nobody was talking about tearing the old girl down.

Pat's glassed-in office off the bull pen was piled with boxes, the file cabinet drawers yawning empty. He was in shirtsleeves and a bow tie, and looked frazzled.

He said, "You took long enough coming in, buddy. I got you off the hook by telling Traffic Detail how banged up you were."

I took the visitor's chair across from where he peered over stacks of paper and file folders. "Pat, what I told you on the phone is all there is."

"Yeah, sure," he said sourly. He pushed a form across the desk at me. "Fill it out."

"You want it typed?"

"There's the machine." He indicated with his chin.

I ran the obstacle course of boxes to the Remington on the little stand, and in five minutes I had the report finished, signed, and handed back.

"What did you find out about the Thorpe girl?" I asked him, returning to the chair.

"Not much more than the papers mentioned. Your little hooker was strictly a loner, not part of a stable. One thing that did surface—six months ago, she dumped her pimp and went out on her own."

"How'd she manage that in this town?"

"Easy," Pat laughed. "She shot him. Aimed right for his balls but got him in the left thigh instead. She told him if he tried coming after her, she'd put the next one in his eye."

"Sounds like she knew how to make a point. Who gave you that? I can't think that incident made its way into a police report."

"Not hardly. Her neighbor gave us the story. An older gal. She and Dulcie were friendly enough to talk a lot over coffee."

Speaking of which, he got up and poured two cups from the Silex and handed one to me, pushing across the sugar packs and creamer he knew I required. Not all tough guys drink it black.

"This shot-up pimp puts your theory in a new light, Mike. I don't figure the driver was after you at all. He got who he wanted."

I sipped at the coffee, swirled it around in the cup, and shook my head. "Maybe."

"Maybe hell. She bruised that pimp's ego just a little too much. He came back after all."

"Six months later? Who was he?"

"Fidel Waxman. Waxey for short. A Cuban from the West Side. No known address."

"You looking for him?"

He waved at the air. "Come on, Mike. You know the system. The report's up, and that's about it."

I finished the coffee. "You believe what you're saying, Pat? That I wasn't the target?"

"What have you got says otherwise?"

"You told me yourself—a pro boosted the hit-and-run vehicle."

"Hell, Mike, scumbags like that can double in any kind of low-level crime. Pimping and hot-wiring go hand in hand. So does stripping cars, from hubcaps to chop shops."

"Including murder?"

"Including murder. And one of these days, Waxey baby will surface on something else, and we'll nail his ass for this one. It's the way of the world." He took the coffee cup from me and put them both back on the shelf unwashed. "So, Mike—you've been out sniffing. What have you come up with on Doolan?"

"I hear he had a girlfriend."

This time he gave me a disgusted shake of his head and grunted under his breath as he sat down again. "Come on, Mike. You talking about those photos in his file? I can give you chapter and verse on every one of those—"

"No," I cut in, "this was street talk."

"Okay. I'll bite. What about it?"

"It just doesn't sound like Doolan, that's all. Chasing young tail. Looking, yes. Cop a feel, maybe. But something serious, with a woman decades younger?"