"I have to admit — you almost had me fooled. All that nonsense about being slow and so confused. You should get an award for best actor. I have to hand it to you."
He looked at Skyler hostilely and shook his head. "I'll give you five minutes to collect your stuff and get out."
In no time, Skyler found himself out in the back alley, a small bundle under one arm.
"Here," shouted Big Al after him. "Take this as a souvenir of your sojourney down South." He threw the newspaper at Skyler's feet and closed the door with a slam.
Skyler picked up the newspaper. It was called USA Today. He looked at the photograph and saw that it didn't look exactly like him, but close enough to make someone think it was. It appeared to be an ad for a book of some sort. Death Mask. It mentioned New York. He read the name of the author and tore the page out, folded it up and put it in his pocket. Then he shuffled off toward the police station.
Chapter 12
Jude was late for work, and so he approached Bashir wary of a long conversation. He was tempted to duck into the neighboring deli for his morning container of coffee, but the Afghan would have probably spotted him, since his coffee stand was positioned to keep the competition in sight. That would have constituted betrayal and opened a breach in their relationship.
"Morning, Bashir," he said.
He got a gold-toothed smile.
"Morning, boss."
Bashir often called him that.
The Afghan wiped his hands on his apron, plucked a container from the top of the upside-down stack, flipped it under the spout and pulled the tiny black bar toward him, leaning back slightly.
"So," he asked, "everything okay?"
"Things are fine. How about you?"
"Hunky-daisy."
"Hunky-dory."
"Okay."
The handsome olive face clouded over. Bashir moved closer and leaned down to the window.
"Boss, let me ask you" — the voice dropped to a conspiratorial level—"you okay? You in any kind of trouble?"
Jude was nonplussed. "What?"
"Are you in trouble?"
"No, of course not." He was confused. "Why do you ask?"
"Nothing, nothing."
Bashir hesitated, as if he were loath to cross some invisible boundary. He decided to.
"It's just that I see things."
"Like what?"
Bashir was practically whispering now, and moved his eyes around, in almost a parody of looking vigilant.
"I think you're being followed."
"Come on!"
"I mean it. I've seen the guy. Big, muscles, mean-looking. He's got a streak in his hair, like white paint or something. You can't miss it."
"Why do you think he's following me?"
"Because I've seen him. More than once."
Jude laughed it off.
"It's true. He stays back and watches you and then he comes."
"C'mon, get out."
But one look at Bashir's face told him that he was not joking. The man really believed what he was saying.
As Jude walked away, clutching the coffee, he shook his head at the absurdity of the idea. Still, the Afghan was serious. He wasn't making it up. Before Jude entered the Mirror building, he turned to look up and down the sidewalk. No one was there — or rather, a lot of people were there, but no large, muscular man with a distinguishing streak in his hair.
He had to admit, sitting there at his desk, that he was feeling a bit spooked. Who wouldn't be? Being told you're being followed. His mind ran through the possibilities. Someone angered by a story? Someone's boyfriend? Some ancient enemy? Nothing clicked, and he decided it was futile. Nothing to it, I'm sure. Just Bashir being… Bashir.
It would help if he got a decent assignment. He hadn't had one in almost two weeks — not since the mutilated body up in New Paltz. That had been a good story — quickly reported and written like a dream, even if it had been cut to shreds. What the hell—the story that muscled it off the front page hadn't been a total loss: it had led him to Tizzie. She was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.
After their stroll on the boardwalk Sunday, he'd taken her home to her apartment on the West Side, and she had invited him up for the famous cup of coffee. She hadn't even got around to opening the beans before they were on the couch. His disclosures had evidently touched her deeply. She was passionate and responsive, but still, he felt, somewhat restrained, as if holding herself back. As for him, he was as sweaty and excited as an adolescent. But he didn't want to press things — it was all too important for that. He wanted everything to go just right.
They'd said a warm good night and had seen each other the night after, club hopping in the Village. They were going to meet again tonight. Three dates in the space of one week — for him that constituted clutter on his social calendar.
He watched the editors conferring and thought he'd check the New Paltz story out again, see if anything had happened worth a follow.
He decided to call Raymond La Barrett, an FBI agent and one of his best law enforcement sources — truth to tell, one of his only law enforcement sources. Jude was not the kind of guy to hit it off with cops or Feds. He had met Raymond three years ago while working on an article about the ten biggest drug dealers in New York, guys who plied their trade more or less openly. The cooperation had been intense and had entailed trust on both sides to skirt the libel laws and get enough about the thugs in the paper to put heat on the police. The article had worked, resulting in six indictments and four convictions. Jude and Raymond had met for a celebration at McSorley's, downed a few drinks and exchanged a few jokes, and struck up a mutually advantageous working relationship.
Raymond was eight years older, an advantage that prompted him to call Jude "kid." Until the FBI man had moved to Washington a year ago, placed in charge of a division with the ominous-sounding title of "Special Operations," they had seen each other every other month or so, and twice gone fishing upstate. They'd worked several stories together and even evolved a loose code on the phone to arrange meetings: if one suggested it was "time for a beer," that was the signal; they alternated — one time at a bar near Jude's apartment, the next near Raymond's place. "Just dumb enough to work," observed Raymond, when he set it up.
Jude knew his number by heart.
"Special Ops."
The call was answered by a secretary, who put him through.
"Yeah."
"Raymond, this is Jude."
"How're you doing, hot shot?"
"Okay. How about you?"
"Good. Still working for the same old rag?"
"More or less. And you, I see, are still wasting taxpayers' dollars."
"Flushing them down the toilet as fast as I can. So what's up?"
"No much. I wonder if you can help me with a homicide up here. A strange case, happened a couple of weeks ago."
"You know we don't get involved in that. Strictly local. Unless there's an angle."
"I'm hoping there is. To tell the truth, I'm at a dead end. I was thinking you might have something."
"Go ahead. Hit me." Raymond's tone sounded dubious.
"Up in a small town called Tylerville, near New Paltz. The body turned up and hasn't been ID'ed yet. The face was ripped off and the fingerprints were missing — at least all but one."
"What's so strange about that?"
"Well, I haven't seen it before."
"You saw it?"
"Yeah, the M.E. let me in during the autopsy. I practically embalmed the guy."
"Jesus Christ. That's not kosher."
Raymond's stint in New York had broadened his vocabulary.