Sleepers

'Had you ever heard a gun fired, Mrs. Salinas?' O'Connor asked, shifting his questioning and walking closer to the witness stand. 'Prior to the night in question, that is.'

'No, I hadn't,' she said.

'How would you describe the sound?'

'Loud,' she said. 'Like firecrackers.'

'Did the sound frighten you?'

'Yes, very much,' she said.

'Did you close your eyes?'

'At first,' she said. 'Until the shooting stopped.'

'Did you think the men who did the shooting were going to kill everyone in the pub?'

'I didn't know what to think,' she said. 'All I knew was that a man had been shot.'

'Did you think you might be shot?' O'Connor asked. 'Shot dead by two cold-blooded killers?'

'Yes,' Mrs. Salinas said, nodding her head firmly. 'Yes I did.'

'Yet, despite that fear,' O'Connor said, 'despite the risk to your life, you looked at their faces as they left the pub. Is that right?'

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, that's right.'

'Is it?' O'Connor said, his voice rising. 'Did you really look at their faces?'

'Yes.'

'Did you, Mrs. Salinas, really look at their faces?' O'Connor asked, now standing inches from her.

'I glanced at them as they walked by,' she said. 'But I did see them.'

'You glanced,' O'Connor said, his voice hitting a higher pitch. 'You didn't look?

'I saw them,' Mrs. Salinas said.

'You glanced at them, Mrs. Salinas,' O'Connor said. 'You glanced at them through the eyes of a frightened woman who may have had too much to drink.'

'Objection, your Honor,' Michael said, his hands spread out in front of him, still sitting in his chair.

'No need, your Honor,' O'Connor said, clearly relishing his first dance in the spotlight. 'I have no further questions.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Salinas,' Judge Weisman said to the now shaken woman. 'You may step down.'

'Looks like Columbo did his homework,' Carol said.

'Today anyway,' I said, my eyes on John and Tommy, watching them wink their approval at O'Connor.

'Have you got time for lunch?' Carol asked.

'I'll make the time,' I said.

'Where would you like to go?'

'How about the Shamrock Pub,' I said. 'I hear it's colorful.'

ELEVEN

The detective in the front seat kept the engine running, his hands on the steering wheel, a container of coffee by his side, the lid still on. I sat in the back, opposite the driver's side, a heavy manilla envelope on my lap. Another detective sat to my left, looking out the window, watching the wind whip shreds of garbage down Little West 12th Street. The defogger was on and all four windows of the late-model sedan were open a crack, letting in thin streams of January air.

It was six-fifteen on a Sunday morning and the downtown streets were empty.

'So, you gonna show me?' the detective to my left asked, pointing down at the envelope. 'Or you just gonna ride the suspense?'

His name was Nick Davenport. He was twenty-eight years old and a sergeant in the Internal Affairs Division of the New York City Police Department. It is the unit responsible for dealing with corrupt cops.

'You've got to agree to a couple of things first,' I said. 'Then we deal.'

'Frankie, what is this shit?'

'Hear the kid out, Nick,' the detective in the front seat said. 'It'll be worth your time. Believe me.'

The detective in the front seat, Frank Magcicco, worked out of a Homicide unit housed in a Brooklyn precinct. He grew up in Hell's Kitchen and remained friendly with many of the people who lived there. He was a first grade detective with an honest name and a solid reputation. He was thirty-three years old, owned a two-family house in Queens, had two preschool children and was married to a woman who worked part-time as a legal secretary.

He was also King Benny's nephew.

'Okay,' Nick Davenport said. 'What's it gonna cost?'

He had a blue-eyed, boyish face hidden by a three-day stubble and an older man's voice. He'd been on the force seven years, two as a patrolman in Harlem and two working plainclothes in Brooklyn, before making the move to I.A.D. He was cold to the fact that most cops hated anyone associated with Internal Affairs and ambitious enough to want to make captain before he hit forty. He knew the fastest way up that track was to reel in the maximum number of dirty cops in a minimum amount of time.

'I don't want any deals cut,' I said.

'How so?' Davenport asked, shifting his body.

'You don't offer him anything.' I said. 'You don't use him to finger other cops. You bring him in and you bring him down.'

'That ain't up to me,' Nick said. 'Once a case starts, a lot of other people get involved. I can't shut 'em all out.'

'I heard you can,' I said, toward Frank in the front seat. 'But, maybe I heard wrong. Maybe I should take this to somebody else.'

'Where'd you find this fuck?' Nick asked Frank, chuckling as he pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

'I were you, I'd do what the kid says,' Frank said, staring out through the windshield, sipping his coffee. 'You make this one, you're gonna be havin' breakfast once a month with the Commissioner.'

'Okay, Eliot Ness,' Nick said to me. 'You got it. He won't be offered any deals. No matter how much he talks, no matter who he fingers. No deals. Anything else?'

'Two more things,' I said.

'Let me hear 'em,' Nick said.

'He gets convicted, he gets state time,' I said. 'I don't want him sent to one of those cop country clubs. He's gotta do prison time.'

'You got a real hardon for this guy,' Nick said. 'What's your beef with him?'

'There's one more thing,' I said. 'You wanna hear it or not?'

'I can't wait,' Nick said.

'It's simple,' I said. 'Nobody knows who fed you the information. How you got it. How you found it. And I mean nobody.'

'How did you get it?'

'It fell into my lap,' I said. 'Just like it's falling into yours.'

'That it?' Davenport asked, tossing his cigarette out through the crack in the window. 'That's all you want?'

'That's all I want,' I said.

Davenport stared at me for a few long moments and then turned to look back outside. One hand rubbed the stubble on his face, one foot shook nervously back and forth.

'You okay with this, Frank?' he asked the detective in the front seat.

'I'm here ain't I?' Frank said, watching him in the rear view mirror.

'Okay, Mr. Ness,' Davenport said, putting out his hand. 'You and me got ourselves a deal.'

I handed him the thick envelope. Inside was the file that Michael had given me on former Wilkinson guard Adam Styler, plus additional information dug up in the past three months by King Benny and Fat Mancho.

'Christ Almighty!' Davenport said, sorting through the material. 'You got everything in here but a confession.'

'I thought I'd leave that to you,' I said. 'And my preference is that you beat it out of him.'

'Dates, times, phone numbers,' Davenport said, his eyes wide, a smile spread across his lace. 'Get a load of this, Frankie, there's even surveillance photos. This piece of shit's pulling in about five grand a month. Rippin' off pushers. Has been for about three years.'

'More like four,' I said.

'He ain't gonna see five,' Davenport said. 'I'll tell you that right now.'

'Do you have enough to get a conviction?' I asked.

'That ain't up to me, kid,' Davenport said. 'That's up to a jury.'

'Then show the jury this,' I said.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. In it was a snub nose. 44 revolver and three spent shells.

'Whatta ya' got there, Ness?' Davenport asked, taking the bag.

'Three weeks ago the body of a drug dealer named Indian Red Lopez was found in an alley in Jackson Heights,' I said. 'There were three bullets in his head and nothing in his pockets.'