Crisscross rj-8 Page 11

  Good enough.

  He unfolded the paper and laid it on his desk with the front page up. Then he used a Handi Wipe to remove the newsprint smudges from his fingers. That done, he wheeled his chair over to the radiator and pulled a padded envelope from behind it. He added the nun's hundred to the rest of the cash. The total was up to about three thousand now. Time to make a trip to the safety deposit box. His office was alarmed, sure, but it wasn't no bank. He'd head there come Friday.

  As he stuffed the envelope back into its hiding place and rose to his feet, he burped and rubbed the swelling dome of his belly. That liverwurst and onion sandwich wasn't sitting too good. He loosened his belt a notch—to the last one. Shit, if he swelled any more he'd have to buy a whole new set of clothes. Again. He already had one closet full of stuff he couldn't wear. He didn't need another.

  He slipped on his suit jacket—didn't even try to button it—and straightened up his desktop. Not much there. He kept a lean look in everything but his body. He realigned the photo of Clancy so it was centered across the far left corner, then headed for the waiting area.

  "Going out for a little walk, Eddy," he told his receptionist. "Be back in thirty or so."

  Edwina checked her watch and jotted the time on a sticky note.

  "Sure thing, Rich."

  Uppity black skank, but she was good, one of the best receptionists he'd ever had. Wouldn't come across with any extracurricular activity like some of them, though. Couple that with the way business had slowed, and he just might have to let her go soon.

  But he'd put that off as long as he could. A fair number of his clients had some bucks. Not big bucks, but comfortable. They came to him from Manhattan and Queens—first time ever in the Bronx for a lot of them. When they called for directions they were relieved to hear he was near the Bronx Zoo and the Botanical Garden—civilization would be close by.

  The bad part about this location was that parking was a bitch and his clients wouldn't see anyone like them on the street; the good part was they damn sure wouldn't bump into anyone they knew, and that was important. Nobody wanted to run into a friend or acquaintance in a detective agency.

  So they hauled themselves all the way up here, and after that sacrifice they needed the reassurance of seeing a receptionist when they stepped through the door.

  He adjusted Eddy's RECEFHONIST sign, lining it up with the leading edge of her desk, and walked out.

  7

  Tremont was jumping today. But nobody on the crowded sidewalk seemed to be looking for a PI. They weren't his sort of clientele anyway.

  Richie didn't know why business had been off lately. He gave good service to his clients and got a lot of referrals from them, but things had been unaccountably slow since the summer.

  Which was why his second income stream had become more important than ever. The regular snoop jobs had always been the meat and potatoes, but the gravy had come from blackmail.

  Blackmail He hated that word. Sounded so dirty and underhanded. He'd tried for years to find a substitute but hadn't come up with anything that worked. Private knowledge protection … secret safekeeping service … classified information management . . . none of them did anything for him.

  So, he'd resigned himself to blackmail … which made him a blackmailer.

  Not something he talked about at Hurley's, but not as bad as it sounded. Really, when you got down to it, he was simply supplying a service: I have information about you, information you don't want made public. For a regular fee I will keep my mouth shut.

  What could be fairer than that? Participation was purely voluntary. Don't want to play? Then don't pay. But be ready to face the music once your ugly little secret gets out.

  Plus he had to admit he loved being able to pull people's strings and make them dance to whatever tune he felt like playing. That was almost as good as the money.

  Richie rounded the corner and walked up past the newer apartment houses toward the zoo.

  Yeah… blackmailer. Not exactly what he'd planned for himself as a kid.

  What do you want to be when you grow up, Richie?

  A blackmailer, Mom.

  He hadn't planned on being a cop either. Cops had been "pigs" back then. But as he grew older in a crummy economy and saw his old man lose his factory job, he started thinking maybe being a cop wasn't so bad. Chances of getting laid off were slim to none, the pay was decent, and you could retire on a pension after twenty or twenty-five years and still have a lot of living ahead of you.

  He'd tried for the NYPD but didn't make it. Had to settle for the NCPD—Nassau County—where the pay didn't turn out to be all that decent. Didn't take him too long, though, to find ways to supplement it.

  As a patrolman first and later a detective, Richie spent twenty-six years with the NCPD, twenty-four and a half of them on the pad. That got him into a little trouble toward the end, but he'd traded keeping mum about a certain IAD guy's sexual tastes for a Get Out of Jail Free pass, and walked away with his pension intact.

  That had been his introduction to the power of knowing things he wasn't supposed to. Instead of putting himself out to pasture, he applied for his private investigator license and opened Cordova Security Consultants. No big expectations, just someplace to go every day. Startup had been slow, but stuff sent his way by his old buddies in NCPD had helped keep him afloat. He found he liked the work, especially the spouse snooping. He'd got pretty good with a camera over the years and had taken some pretty steamy pictures. He'd kept a private gallery back at the house until this past September.

  But often it was the bonus material he collected that paid the best. While checking out a husband or wife suspected of getting it on with somebody else, he frequently came across unrelated or semi-related dirt that he put to work for himself.

  Like this nun, for instance. Helene Metcalf had traveled all the way from her Chelsea high-rise to hire Richie. Her hubby Michael was a capital campaign consultant—that meant professional fund-raiser—and had been out on the job an unusual number of nights. She was starting to suspect he might be sneaking a little something on the side and wanted Richie to find out.

  Mikey's latest account was raising money for the renovation of St. Joseph's Church on the Lower East Side. Camera in hand, Richie started tailing him and found he was indeed going to St. Joe's—but not just for fund-raising. Seemed he was also doing a little habit-raising with one of the nuns.

  Richie took a few shots of the pair in flagrante delicto, as they say, and was about to show them to the wife when he realized he might be sitting on a gold mine. Normally putting the squeeze on a nun would be like trying to buy a whale steak from Greenpeace, but this nun was one of the honchos in the fund-raising project. That was how she'd got so tight with Mikey boy in the first place. Lots of cash flowing through that lady's hands, and those photos was a way to tap into that stream.

  So Richie told wifey that her hubby was going exactly where he said he was—showed her photos of him entering and leaving the St. Joe's basement on the nights in question—and said he'd found no impropriety.

  He put the squeeze on Mikey as well. Usually he had a rule: Never use nothing against the client. That was a no-no. Had to keep up the reputation, keep up the referrals from satisfied clients.

  But Mikey wouldn't know that the guy who was milking him had been hired by his wife.

  Because another rule was keep it anonymous. Never let the cow see your face or, worse, learn your name.

  So Mikey Metcalf became the second cow in this particular pasture.

  Up until a couple of months ago, Richie had maintained a perfect score on the anonymity meter. Then one September night he'd come home from Hurley's and smelled something funny. He raced up to his third floor and found out some guy'd poured acid over everything in his filing cabinet. The guy got away by running over a neighbor's roof.

  Only explanation was that one of the cows had found out who he was. Richie had burned his gallery of photos—hated to do it but it was evide
nce if anyone hit him with a search warrant—and moved his sideline to his office. He'd been looking over his shoulder ever since.

  He was puffing a little by the time he reached the wall of the zoo. A hot dog pushcart tempted him but he forced himself to keep moving. Later.

  Call the nun first.

  Kind of fun to have a nun on the hook. Back in grammar school the penguins—nuns dressed head to toe in black in those days—had always been after him, whacking him on the back of the head or rapping his knuckles whenever he acted up. Not that he'd been damaged for life or nothing. That was a crock. Truth was, he couldn't think of a single time he hadn't deserved what he got. That didn't make them any less of a pain in the ass though.

  The nun thing had got to be a game after a while. A badge of honor. If you hadn't got hit you was some kind of fag.

  He guessed this was sort of like payback.

  He chose a public phone at random and licked his lips as he dialed the convent. He knew Sister Margaret Mary would be over at the school until three or three-thirty, but wanted to shake her up a little.

  And he knew just how to do that.

  8

  "Got him!" Margiotta said.

  Jensen had insisted he do the search for Jason Amurri in Jensen's own office. He didn't want anything they found becoming water-cooler talk around the admin floor. So Margiotta had pulled up a chair beside Jensen's desk, swiveled the monitor, moved the keyboard, and gotten to work.

  "About time."

  "This guy's one reclusive SOB." Margiotta shook his head. He had close-clipped black hair and dark brown eyes. "Only someone with my enormous talents could have dug him up. A lesser sort would've come up with jack shit."

  Jensen decided to humor him. "That's why I called on you. Show me."

  Margiotta rose and swiveled the monitor back toward Jensen. He pointed to the screen.

  "You want to know about his father, I came across tons. Tons. But as for Jason himself, this is the best of what I found. It ain't much—like I said, he's pretty much a recluse—but I think it's enough to give you an idea who he is."

  On the screen was a paragraph from a news article about one Aldo Amurri. Jensen had never heard of him. It mentioned he had two sons, Michel and Jason. Michel, the older one, lived in Newport Beach on the shore. Jason lived in Switzerland.

  "That's it?"

  "Did you read about the father? Check him out. That'll tell you something about this Jason guy."

  Jensen scrolled back to the beginning of the article and began reading. He felt his mouth go dry as he learned about Aldo Amurri, father of the young man Jensen had booted out on his ass.

  He knew he couldn't keep this from Luther Brady. Eventually he'd find out. Brady always found out. So it was better if Jensen broke the news himself.

  But Brady was going to be pissed. Royally pissed.

  9

  The phone was ringing as Jack stepped into Gia's place. He'd just picked up Vicky at the bus stop. When he saw Mount Sinai on the caller ID he snatched up the receiver. God, he hoped it wasn't bad news. He'd talked to Gia just a couple of hours ago and—

  "Is Vicky home?" Gia's voice.

  "She's right here. Is anything—?"

  "Then come and get me. Please get me out of here."

  "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. Really. Dr. Eagleton released me but the hospital doesn't want me going home alone. I know it's only been one night but I'm so sick of this place. I want my home."

  Jack knew it was more than that. Gia skeeved out—her verb—in hospitals.

  "We're on our way."

  They grabbed a cab on Sutton Place, zipped up Madison into the low One Hundreds, then west over to Fifth Avenue. Mount Sinai Medical Center had a view of Central Park that the Donald Trumps of the city would kill for. Jack and Vicky found a very pale Gia perched on a wheelchair inside the front door. Jack guided her into the cab, and off they went.

  Ten minutes later they were stepping through the front door on Sutton Square.

  "Oh, God, it's so good to be home!"

  Jack followed her down the hall. "Now you're going to be a good girl and take it easy like the doctor said, right?"

  "I feel fine, Jack. Really, I do. Whatever was going on has stopped. I slept straight through the night and haven't had a hint of a cramp since."

  "But you lost a lot of blood and didn't you say you're supposed to take it easy?'

  "Yes, but that doesn't mean putting myself to bed."

  "It means staying oft your feet and that's exactly what you're going to do." He led her to the big leather chair in the oak-paneled library and seated her in it. "Now stay there till bedtime."

  He knew Gia would never do anything to jeopardize the baby, but he also knew that her high energy level made it difficult for her to sit still.

  "Don't be silly. What about dinner?"

  "I can make it!" Vicky cried. "Let me! Let me!"

  Jack knew a Vicky dinner would mean more work for Gia than if she were doing it all herself. But he had to play it carefully here. Didn't want to step on little-girl feelings.

  "I was thinking of takeout."

  Vicky wouldn't let it go. "Let me make it! Please, please please!"

  "Gee, Vicks, I already ordered Chinese for tonight." Jack knew it ran a close second to Italian on her favorite foods list. "You know, egg rolls, wanton soup, General Tso's chicken, and even a doo-doo platter."

  Her eyes widened. "You mean apu pu platter?"

  "Oh, yeah. Right. You know, with ribs and shrimp toast and even a fire." She loved to singe her spareribs in the flame. "But if you'd rather cook, then I'll call and cancel. No problem."

  "No, I want a pu pu platter. I can cook tomorrow night."

  "You're sure?"

  Vicky nodded. "A pu pu platter, right?"

  "Right. I've got an errand to run and after that I'll bring home the doo-doo."

  Vicky giggled and ran off cheering.

  Jack turned and winked at Gia. "The usual broccoli and walnuts in garlic sauce, I presume?"

  She nodded. "You presume correctly. But where can you get a takeout pu pu platter?"

  "I don't know, but I'll find one, even if I have to get a can of sterno and jury-rig one myself." He leaned over and kissed her. "You're sure you're all right?"

  "The baby and I are fine. We just had a little scare is all."

  "And you're going to follow doctor's orders, right?"

  "I'm going to take a shower in my own bathroom to wash off the hospital and then I'm going to sit right here and read a book."

  "Okay. But make it a quick shower. I've got some errands to run."

  "Fix-it errands?"

  He nodded. "Got a couple of them going."

  "Nothing dangerous, 1 hope. You promised—"

  "No clanger. Really. One is just finding a missing guy for his mom. And I'm arranging the other so that the guy I'm fixing won't even know he's been fixed. No danger, no chance of bodily harm. It will be no-contact poetry."

  "I've heard that before. You say 'piece of cake' and next you show up with a purple face and choke marks all over your throat."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "And you couldn't even go visit your father without starting some sort of war."

  Jack held up his hands. "Sometimes these things take unpredictable turns, but the two fix-its running now are as straightforward as they come. No surprises. I swear."

  "Oh, I know you believe that, but lately every time you start one of these jobs it seems to turn nasty."

  "Not this time. See you in a couple of hours. I'm keeping my cell phone off for the rest of the day." When he saw her questioning look, he said. "Long story. But I'll be checking in lots." He waved. "Love ya."

  She smiled that smile for him. "Love you too."

  10

  "You're looking better today," Jensen said as he seated himself on the visitor side of Luther Brady's helipad-sized desk.

  Jensen wished he had an office like this—high ceilings, rich wood pa
neling, a rosette of skylights above, and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows facing uptown with a magnificent view of the Chrysler Building. The paneling was all walnut except for a pair of chromed steel doors embedded in the south wall. That was where Brady kept a monument to his biggest secret, the one known only to him, Jensen, and the High Council: Opus Omega.

  The Acting Prime Dormentalist and Supreme Overseer was a handsome man of average height with broad shoulders and a head of long wavy brown hair that he let trail over his collar. A few years ago Jensen had noticed gray creeping into that brown, but it hadn't lasted long. Today he wore one of his

  Hickey-Freeman or Dolce & Gabbana suits—he never wore a uniform—that he donned for public appearances. He was Dormentalism's public face and as such needed to cut an impressive figure. Luther Brady wasn't simply the Church's leader, he was its peerless PR man too.

  Jensen had to admit he did a great job in both roles, but especially the latter. When he appeared on TV he was the soul of rationality, generosity, and selflessness. The MVP of the Altruism Bowl.

  "Better?" Brady frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "You looked tired yesterday."

  Brady paused a beat, then said, "Not surprising, considering the effort it took to keep that low pressure area to the north during Sunday's rally."

  Jensen remembered watching the weather reports all week, preparing for the almost certain probability that it would rain on the rally. And then, during Saturday night and early Sunday morning, the front had slid north. Jensen had written it off to good luck, but now Brady was telling him…

  "You did that?"

  "Well, not alone. I had a couple of HC members helping me. I probably could have done it on my own, but I had to give my address at the rally some attention. As you know, we Fully Fused may be superior beings, but we're not gods."

  No, we're not, Jensen thought with a spasm of guilt. Some of us aren't even superior beings.

  Brady looked apologetic and added, "I would have asked your help but I didn't want to distract you from your security duties."