The precinct was two stories of raw concrete that must have been raked with combs while the cement was drying. Entrance inside was through steel double doors that looked not only solid but also bulletproof. Decker took three steps down, and stood in front of a bright blue horseshoe-shaped desk manned by a black woman in uniform. To Decker’s right was a glass case filled with the precinct’s sports trophies; to his left were a couple of offices and a row of bolted lime green plastic chairs, the sole occupant being a sleeping homeless person of indeterminate gender curled up as tightly as a potato bug.
As Decker approached the desk, Novack was bounding down a set of steps.
“Hey. Right on time. Up here.”
Decker followed Novack upstairs.
“How you doin’?” Micky asked.
“Fine.”
“Good. I got him to come, but it wasn’t easy.”
“I owe you.”
“Yeah. Right.” Novack led him past a cubby used as the squad-room secretary’s office. “Welcome to the two-eight. It ain’t an architectural showpiece, but we do have a nice view of the gas station.”
Except for one other man, the place was empty-one of the advantages of working Sunday morning. The area given over to the gold shields was cramped, a maze of waist-high cubicles stuffed with standard-issue metal desks, functional chairs, and basic computers. The walls were whitewashed cinder block, the water-streaked ceiling held dim fluorescent lighting, and the flooring was composed of white crushed-rock tile scuffed dirt gray. There were a few stabs of humanity, courtesy of several desktops holding wilting potted plants or an occasional child’s homemade ceramic mug or paperweight, some scattered personal pictures. The majority of the domain, of course, was given over to business.
Papers abounded.
Loose-leaf sheaves were piled high on any flat surface that would hold them, or posted chockablock on bulletin boards. They spilled out of file cabinets and from plastic bins that also contained thick wads of forms and reports. Street maps were taped to the wall, dotted with crimes that had been coded by different-colored pins. There were two interview rooms and between their peacock blue doors was a bulletin board overlaid with police sketches of felons at large.
One particular printed poster caught Decker’s eye. It showed the American flag, the caption reading: THESE COLORS DON’T RUN. Below the poster was another bulletin board filled with snapshots of bleeding, ash-covered officers from September 11.
Novack caught him staring. “You know, being in the Job, you think you’ve seen it all.”
Decker let out a wry laugh. “Guess what?”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Novack pointed to the room’s other occupant. “That’s Brian Cork from Vice standing over my desk. Hey, Bri, say hello to Lieutenant Decker.”
Cork looked up. “Mornin’.”
“Mornin’.”
They gathered at Novack’s desk. Cork appeared to be in his forties, around five-ten, with big shoulders and a growing beer gut. Around the chest and arms, he was a mound of muscle. If the precinct had a football team, these guys would have been perfect ends. Cork had a round, ruddy face, with thin, almost bloodless lips and pug features. He also had a broken nose perched on his face like a pattypan squash. He was scanning through the postmortem pictures of Ephraim.
He said, “So you’re a lieutenant in L.A?”
“Yep.”
“What are you doing out here, messing with this trash?”
“I was wangled into coming out here to be the translator for the cops. The vic was a brother-in-law to my brother. I told him I’d poke around. I was just telling Micky that I think I’ve outlived my usefulness. Even the family is sick of my face. Pretty good trick since I’ve only been here for two days.”
“Family…” Cork made a face. “I’ve got six brothers and sisters. Three of them are cops, so you know it’s gotta be bad news right away. We get together every Christmas. It always starts off full of good cheer, but by the end of the evening, more punches are thrown than at a boxing match. Sheez, I’ll take the street over pissed-off siblings any day of the year.”
“What can you do?” Decker said.
“What can you do is right.” Cork sighed. “So you’re bowing out?”
“Since I’m not adding anything, I think that’s the smartest thing to do.”
“So for what it’s worth, I’ll put my two cents in. This is just observation.” Cork was still staring at the pictures. “You know what it looks like to me?”
“What?” Novack asked.
“It looks like Family-”
“I don’t think it’s Family, Bri.”
“I didn’t say it was Family, Mick, I said it looks like Family. Not current Family. Back four, five years when C.D. was still in the business and still aligned with the old man. It’s not one of his, though. First off, C.D. don’t do nothing unless it’s big money, and this guy is obviously low level. Second, C.D. would never, ever clean a mark in a hotel. Too many people, and C.D. don’t attract attention to himself. And third, and this may be rumor, but last I heard, C.D. was out of the business. I’m just saying it looks like one of his. A single shot. Not much blood. No extraneous shit. Clean and simple.”
“C.D.?” Decker asked.
“Christopher Donatti,” Novack answered him.
It took Decker a moment to absorb the words. Only then did a flood of images hit him like an overexuberant wave. Very few of Decker’s murder cases were committed to instant memory: Chris’s was one of them. Eight years had passed since Decker’s last contact with the younger Donatti, yet the details were still as fresh as a brisk wind. The murder of a high-school prom queen, Donatti the lead suspect. He’d been Whitman back then, and though the last name had changed, Decker was sure that the kid had not. Once a psycho…
“The hit looks like it was done by Chris Donatti?”
“It looks like it-that’s all. C.D. hasn’t been tied to anything since the old man had a massive coronary.”
“Joseph Donatti had a heart attack?” Decker asked.
“Yeah, Joey had a bad one.” Cork stared at him.
“Must have missed that one.” Decker swallowed. “When did this happen?”
“About four, five years ago,” Novack said.
“I’m slipping,” Decker said. “So does Chris Donatti run the Family?”
“You mean the Donatti Family? There is no Donatti Family. It dissolved.”
“What happened? Did a rival boot Chris out?”
“No, C.D.’s the one that dissolved it.” Cork stared at Decker. “You keep calling Donatti Chris? Are you on a first-name basis with the guy?”
Decker shrugged. “So what’s he doing? C.D.?”
“We got a problem with him. The problem is he’s a cipher. He don’t talk.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t talk?”
“Just that. He don’t talk. Complete opposite of the old man. Old man ordered a hit, half the world knew about it. Not C.D. You know after the old man was retired, everyone was waiting to see what would happen. How C.D. would flex his muscle. Then it came-two hits of top dealers in Washington Heights. Bam, bam. Clean as a whistle. In-and-out jobs. Donatti’s M.O. to a tee. So we’re thinking, oh boy, C.D.’s moving in on Dominican territory. Watch out for the war. Then you know what happened?”
“What?”
“Nothing, that’s what happened. While the Doms are scrambling around, trying to reorganize after losing two bosses, someone moves in and pays them all off. I’m not talking about chump change here; I’m talking big bucks. Next thing we know, half of Wash Heights is suddenly Benedetto territory.”