“Retired.”
Jeffrey ignored that. “I’ve also been reading your personnel file from the NYPD.”
“That’s confidential!” Johnny screamed, red in the face, veins popping out of his neck.
“Come on, detective. Don’t play dumb. In a city like New York, nothing is confidential, nothing is off-limits, especially to people like me. You know that.”
“Yeah,” MacClough said, pouring himself a double, “I know. It sucks, but I know.”
“Yes, I should think after the Hernandez case you’d be well acquainted with the vagaries and benefits of the system.”
“All right, counselor, you made your point.” MacClough downed his drink in one gulp. “Leave the file. Your brother and me will be up to see the Castle-on-Hudson PD tomorrow morning. Do me a favor, don’t let ‘em know we’re coming. If they’re like most cops, they resent the shit out of people who they think expect special treatment. The fact that you’re a lawyer also works against you.”
“It’s in your hands,” Jeffrey smiled, just briefly. He couldn’t help celebrating a victory even if his son’s life was in danger. “I won’t insult you by offering payment now, but I’ve transferred $25,000 into Dylan’s bank account for your use. I don’t care what you do with it. You don’t have to account for it. If you require more, you’ll get more within a minute of the phone call. All I want is Zak back safely.”
“You know, counselor,” John said, “I would have helped just on Dylan’s behalf. Why bring Hernandez into it?”
“When it comes to motivation, Detective, I believe in overkill. Good night.” He took a step to go, then stopped and looked me in the eye. “I’ve already made excuses for your absence at shivah.”
“Oh yeah?” I was incredulous. “What did you tell them?”
“That you sold your screenplay and had to go back to L.A. Maybe when Zak’s home, you will go back.”
“I doubt it, but let’s find Zak first.”
Jeffrey was gone. And before I got the name Hernandez out of my mouth, MacClough shooed me out of the Scupper. I had to change. I had to shower. I had to get some rest, he said. We had a long day ahead of us. He had to read through the file. He had to find someone to cover for him at the bar. He had a thousand things to do before tomorrow.
By the time my wet hair landed on my pillow for the first time in a month, I had almost forgotten about Hernandez. Almost.
Lovesong Lane
We were two hours and three cups of coffee into the trip, just crossing the Tappan Zee, when MacClough began giving instructions. I was to do most of the talking, at least in the beginning. I was just a concerned uncle who had asked an old friend along for the long ride. Johnny would pick his spot and take over, but I was always to stand between him and the investigating detective. John threw the Hench Security file on my lap and told me to look through it. I did.
MacClough was right, Hench was thorough. Not only did the file contain verbatim transcripts of all their interviews, bios, and background material on the interviewees, but there was a copy of the Castle-on-Hudson Police Department report and bios of the investigating officers. It was all so precise and the binding wasn’t bad either. Unfortunately, neither Hench nor the police nor any of Zak’s friends had any idea of his whereabouts or, if they had, they weren’t saying.
“So,” Johnny broke the quiet a few minutes out of town, “how you holding up?”
“Like a straw man.”
“Then we’ll have to keep you outta the wind.”
“Last night, my brother mentioned the Hernan-”
“You know,” he cut me off, “last night after you left, I couldn’t help thinking about the last time I saw my old man. He was in the hospital and he whispers in my ear to get rid of the nurse. When I do, he pulls out two cans of Rheingold from under his damned pillow.”
“No shit! What’d’ydo?”
“I laid into him good.”
“Why, because he wasn’t allowed to drink?”
“No, Klein, because the beer was warm. We never shared much, me and the old man, but at least we shared that Rheingold.”
After a pause, I said: “You know my brother’s not telling us everything.”
“I know. I just can’t figure out what he’s holding back or why. When he got so determined about no press involvement, I knew something wasn’t kosher. We’re here!”
Castle-on-Hudson had once been the exclusive enclave of old moneyed families whose names read like the passenger manifest from the Mayflower. These days, the locals were more apt to be descended from peasants that sailed across the Atlantic in steerage. The most recent arrivals, however, tended to migrate on 747s owned by Air India or All Nippon Air. Still, the majority of lots were zoned for a minimum of two acres and handyman specials went for about half a million.
The police station was an old stone building that looked like a set piece from MacBeth. The police department itself was the typically schizophrenic kind of force you find in wealthy communities. The uniformed officers tended to be young, obedient muscle-heads who liked to write tickets and carry 9 mms. Armed meter maids, MacClough called them. The detectives were a whole ‘nother story. They were mostly retired big city detectives. Some just missed the job. Some were looking for a second pension. They were well paid and happy not have to deal with the bureaucratic bull-shit big city departments serve up in large portions. If MacClough were inclined, he’d have been an ideal candidate.
No one seemed to pay us much mind as we walked through the front doors. There was a flurry of activity in the station house. Packs of uniformed officers ran up and down the twin spiral staircases that stood to either side of the main desk. To our right, three stony-faced state troopers studied a local map. To our left, a small horde of media types waited impatiently outside the police chiefs door.
“What’s going on?” I asked Johnny. “I mean, I’ve never been in here before, but I can’t imagine that Castle-on-Hudson usually attracts much press. And what are the state troopers doing?”
“I don’t-” he cut himself off as we approached the main desk. “See the black band across the sergeant’s badge?”
“Dead cop?”
“Dead cop, probably murdered. The press doesn’t turn out for kidney failure.” He crossed himself. “Let’s just do what we came here to do. You remember the detective’s name, right?”
“Caliparri, retired member of the Detective Bureau of the Newark, New Jersey Police Department.”
“Good.”
The desk sergeant didn’t exactly snap to attention when we approached. That was fine with me. It gave me more time to study the soft lines of her face and imagine how her pulled-back auburn hair might fall against her lightly freckled skin. When she looked up, the corners of her full lips smiled politely, but the corners of her eyes smiled not at all. Eyes shot with blood are never easy to look at. The blue shine of her eyes made the contrast even harder to take.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.
“Detective Caliparri?” She went pale. “Your names?”
“Dylan Klein. John MacClough.”
“One moment.” She picked up the phone, punched in a few numbers, and turned her back to us. We could hear her whisper, but not her words. With some color having returned to her cheeks, she faced us and said: “Staircase to your right. One flight up, third door to your left.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. .Hurley,” I read off her name tag. “Sorry for your loss.”
She just bowed her head and waved us up the steps.
“Come,” the answer came to my knock.
By the time MacClough closed the door behind us, my clothes needed washing. The place reeked of cigarettes and a layer of smoke hung in midair like a sleeping ghost. A man, trying hard to look disinterested, sat on the corner of a desk smoking a Kent. He had a kind, meaty face with a nose that twisted more ways than a ski trail. He was dark-skinned, gray-haired, and brown-eyed. His smoke-yellowed fingers were thick and square at the nail. When he finally stopped the disinterested act, he looked right past me: “John MacClough.” His voice was raspy. His tone was equal parts anger and disdain.