5
Tanner Burke pushed open the door of her small suite on the
Plaza's fifteenth floor and took several steps across the gold
carpet of the sitting room. She turned to see Baker still in the
corridor. He stood shuffling uncomfortably as he had while she reclaimed her key from the message desk. The prim lit
tle night manager had arched an eyebrow at her dishevel
ment and then at the rather furtive man whose jacket she was
wearing. Then, as now, Tanner was afraid he would bolt. He
seemed to be sniffing the air and listening. She didn't know
whether he reminded her more of a skittish animal or of a
timid teenager at the end of his first date.
“It's all right to come in, Harry,” she said.
He looked away. “It's late, Tanner. I really have to go.”
She shook her head. “And that's another thing,” she said. ”I refuse to call you Harry. You don't look like a Harold and
you're not a Harold. I'll call you Peter. That name is at least
possible for you.” One hand went to her hip. “Now, Peter,
will you come in here please?”
Baker had to smile. And he had to admire her. In fact, he
realized, this was his first good look at her. She was smaller than he remembered. It must have been the ski clothes and
thick-soled boots. But she was lovelier, if anything, even
with the purplish swelling on her cheek and the bits of dried
leaf in her hair that the night man had noticed. He'd like to have stayed. But no, he thought. Baker shrugged apologeti
cally and shook his head.
First there was confusion in her eyes and then what
looked like hurt. Tiredly, she brought both hands to the sides
of her face and took a breath.
“This might sound a bit conceited,” she said, her voice
starting to catch, “but do you hang around actresses so
much that it's old stuff when one invites you into her hotel
room?”
“Nope.” Baker tried to lighten the moment. “Skiers are
old stuff, maybe. But not actresses.”
Tanner blinked but didn't smile. “Maybe you're one of
those people who think any actress has to be promiscuous.”
“No, really.” Baker took a step toward her. Damn! “Tan
ner, it's really nothing like that at all.”
“Well, I'm not.”
“Tanner. . .”
“Except tonight. Doggone it, Peter, tonight I'm not going
to be alone. You can't just walk away after what's happened
to me. If you do, I swear I'm going to get on that phone and call the first man I know who's awake and get him up here no matter what I have to do to keep him here.”
“You could call a woman friend to stay . ..”
“Dumb!” Her chin began to quiver.
“I'm sorry. I suppose that was stupid.” Baker said it, but
he wasn't sure why. He would have thought that the last
thing she'd want was a man near her or touching her. Baker didn't like that thought either.
”I can call room service.” Her face brightened a shade.
“You offered me a drink before, Peter. You can stay at least
that long,” she said in a small fading voice. Baker knew that
she was still very much afraid and that her control was an
actress's control. It was only his presence and, in no small
part, the mystery of him that kept her mind from focusing
back on the knives, the terror, the screams. Baker listened
for a warning from Abel. None came. The other one was
silent too. The only voice he heard was his own. It reminded him that the hour was late and that he needed a quiet place
to rest and to stay. It said he wanted very much to stay. With
her.
His expression must have told her that. She moved
quickly toward him as he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. Tanner Burke stopped inches away,
her hands raised toward his shoulders but not touching
him.
”I... I don't want to make you uncomfortable,” she said,
swallowing back a hot feeling that welled in her throat. “Just
so you're . . .”
“Close.” He nodded. ”I know the feeling.”
In Greenwich, forty miles north, Tina Baker sat bolt upright
in the dark of her bedroom. It had come again.
She looked at the illuminated clock by her bedside. Al
most one in the morning. An hour since the last feeling
came. But this time was different. Not scary like before. No
knives and wet leaves and yelling. This one was all warm
and neat. Exciting neat. Like when you see your best friend
after a long time and she's just as laughing glad to see you. Daddy? Daddy's with a friend of mine?
No, that isn't right. It's a grownup. It's somebody pretty
and it's okay for Daddy to be with her because he knows her
and I know her and . . . The television! Tina felt something
about the television. What? Well, turn it on, dummy.
She slid her legs from beneath the light blanket and
dropped her good leg to the floor. With both hands gripping the bedpost, she pulled herself upright and then held on, bit
ing her lip, waiting for the blood to sear through her other foot. She counted ten seconds and then pressed the injured foot against the carpet. Tina walked the five paces to the
dresser on which the television sat. It was working, she
thought. The more she tried to keep the foot from knowing
that it hurt her, the less it seemed to try.
The set snapped on, washing the room in an instant blue
light. Tina had no idea what she was looking for. A
Kojak
rerun? That was on Channel 5. Channel 4. Hurry. She
clicked the changer one stop. Clairol Nice 'n' Easy. The end of a Clairol commercial. She waited. The commercial faded and there was Johnny Carson saying goodnight to a couch
full of guests. Was it one of the guests? No. She didn't even
know them. The commercial. It was something about the
commercial
…
she thought.
One by one, she scanned the other channels just in case.
There was nothing. Just movies. Tina reached for the re
mote control unit, which she kept on the set itself. She re
fused to use it from her bed. The set and the room went
black.
She retraced her five paces. Daddy? I couldn't find it.
Was it the Clairol commercial?
Tina sank deeply into her bed, her blanket hugged up
against her chin. That was a good one, she smiled. That was
a really good one.
A long crosstown block from the Plaza, where Sixth Av
enue dissolved into
a
northbound road that snaked through
Central Park, a near-frantic Michael Biaggi struggled to
collect his thoughts. That he'd lost Baker and the girl was the least of his problems. Anyone could lose a tail in Cen
tral Park. Baker would turn up. Sooner or later, he'd turn up
at the St. Moritz.
But how would he explain the rest of it? How would he
explain Baker finding that one particular punk in the whole
goddamned city of New York? And if Baker meant to find
the kid, why was he so damned surprised when the kid said his name? How do you explain that? And how would he ex
plain just lying there watching it happen when he could have
stopped it? Tortora would cut his heart out if he knew. But
what was he supposed to do? Shoot Baker? Then Duncan Peck would have had his ass.
The answer, he thought, is don't explain. Don't explain
because you didn't even know. Let Harrigan figure out what
the kid was doing in there. Let Harrigan find his name in the
wallet. You never looked. Harrigan will know you were just
as surprised as he. Christ, he thought miserably, how did you
ever get into shit this deep.
Biaggi peered onto Central Park South from behind the high stone pillars that marked the roadway entrance. The
blue Oldsmobile was still there. He could see Harrigan's
arm on the
...
Biaggi stepped back. A uniformed policeman
had stopped on the sidewalk and was looking over Harri
gan's car. Now he was approaching Harrigan, shining a light on him. Good, he thought. It'll give Harrigan something else
to think about besides trying to read my mind every time I blink twice.
The policeman bent low to read the card Connor Harri
gan held in the flashlight's beam. Even at a distance, Bi
aggi could see the anger and frustration in the older man's face. But the policeman seemed satisfied. He straightened, touched his cap, and continued toward Fifth Avenue at an easy pace. Biaggi waited until the foot cop had passed the
Park Lane and was halfway to the Plaza fountain, then
dashed across the street and slid into the passenger seat
next to Connor Harrigan. Harrigan was still fuming at his
luck.
“What's the big deal?” asked the young man in the gray
raincoat. Biaggi wiped a mixture of rain and sweat from his face. “You flashed a card, right? All the cop knows is that a
fed is working his precinct.”
Harrigan sucked noisily on his pipe. “If that cop has
any career smarts, he will now call his sergeant who will call his captain. In fifteen minutes, they'll be down here putting a glass to us in case we're close to a bust they can
get a piece of. What if one gets lucky and spots Jared
Baker?”
“On a fugitive want from Connecticut?” Biaggi began to
relax. “That's a hell of a long shot.”
“So were the '69 Mets,” grumped Harrigan. “Anyway, what about this girl Baker found? Wherever she is, Baker
figures to be with her.”
“If she ever got out of the park. That maniac might have
left her all carved up someplace just like the other two.”
“Baker's no maniac,” Harrigan said quietly.
“You didn't see him work.”
Harrigan chose not to correct him.
”I mean,” Biaggi went on, “one minute he looks like Joe
Normal out for an evening stroll, and the next he's taking those two bums like they were Girl Scouts. And he's me
thodical, you know? Like he's trained for years. Like he
knows he can do whatever he wants and they can't do shit back to him. Even when he had a knife
hanging out of his
hip.”
“He's had no training.” Harrigan frowned at the thought
of Baker being wounded. How bad? Bad enough to make
him hole up? Don't hole up, Baker. Stay on track. Keep
moving so old Uncle Connor can see who you flush.
“Like hell, with due respect.”
“What?” Harrigan had stopped listening.
“Training,” Biaggi said. “Down at the Farm, I graduated
second place in unarmed combat and first in silent killing.
But I have to tell you, I don't think I could have taken Baker without an ax.”
Harrigan stretched and yawned. ”I know Baker from the
minute he was born,” he said. “He grew up in a box right
here in the apple. He went to school, played some sports, got
a job, got married, and bought his own box up in the burbs. For a living, he pushes laundry soap. For kicks, he draws
pictures and sails around on a little boat. For real excite
ment, he skis down hills. That's it. Never in any service.
Never any training. Not the kind you mean.”
Harrigan cracked the window and relit his pipe, gazing
thoughtfully through the smoke that spread across the wind
shield. “Back to the girl. On the radio, you said she looked
familiar.”
”I didn't get that good a look. Middle, late twenties. Dark hair. Very sharp, and I think I've seen her more than once.
Not on the job, though. I'd remember.”
“An actress or a model?”
“Maybe.”
“Would it help if you heard a name?”
”I don't know. Yeah. Maybe.”
Harrigan chose not to comment on the clarity of Biaggi's reply. He reached for the radiophone and punched out a number. “Listen, Katy, this is Connor. Call up somebody,
wake up somebody, who works for an outfit called the
Celebrity Register. I'm looking for what youngish, brunette,
good-looking actress is in town. She's probably staying in
the East Fifties or Sixties, but give me everybody. Also, I
had to flash my ID for a street cop from the Sixth Precinct.
I told him we're staking out a hotel where some bad paper's
been showing up. If anyone checks, you confirm that and
tell them it's strictly little league, okay? . . . We'll be here,
darlin'.”
”I thought Kate was inside the hotel.” Biaggi tried to
make his question sound casual. He didn't like giving wrong
information to Duncan Peck.
“Baker got his own girl.” Harrigan shrugged. ”I sent Mul
grew back to Central.”
Biaggi patted his raincoat and took a breath. “Oh,” he
said, “speaking of ID, I took the watches and wallets off
those two that Baker chopped up.”
“What did you do that for?” Harrigan looked at him.
Biaggi blinked. “Mostly to dirty things up so it looks like
something else.”
“You got good instincts.” But Harrigan saw an odd light
in Biaggi's eyes. “What's the other part? The part that's left over when you say ‘mostly’?”
”I got curious. Those two weren't street bums or junkies. Good clothes, good watches.” He fished out the wallets and
held them in his hand, the watchbands hanging from one fin
ger. “You want a look?”
Harrigan shook his head. “Toss them over the first bridge we cross.”
“Even the cash? I mean, there's got to be money in these.”
“You saying you want to keep it?”
“No, but it's wasteful. Maybe the poor box, even, down
at St. Patrick's.”
“St. Patrick hasn't seen any poor people since he opened
on Fifth Avenue. Deep-six it.”
Biaggi fumbled with the one that had blood on it and
riffled to the credit cards and papers of the one called Sumo. “The fat one is Warren H. Bagnold of Seventy-
three Cedar Lane in Bronxville, New York. See, I told you.
And here's a membership card for the Westchester Restau
rant Group Dining Club. That's money up around there,
right?”
“The Westchester Restaurant Group is also Mob.” There was a quiet hum in the back of Harrigan's head like the buzz
of a shorting wire.
Biaggi was relaxing again. “Warren doesn't know from Mobs. He just eats. Except he's going to eat through a tube
for a while if he makes it at all. This one's from the guy
called Jace.” The other billfold was an ostrich-hide from
Dunhill. Biaggi's hand trembled slightly. He slipped it open,
“This one's also Bronxville. John C. Tortor...” He allowed
the name to die on his lips.
Harrigan jerked, disbelieving, then slid the wallet from
Biaggi's fingers. Involuntarily, Biaggi wiped his hands
against his raincoat.
“Holy sweet Jesus,” Harrigan whispered. The wire was
beginning to smoke. With his thumb, he folded back the plastic files of photographs and credit cards. Most of the
cards were in the name of John C. Tortora. J. C . . . That's
the Jace, he guessed. Other cards, however, were courtesy
cards. A special parking permit issued by the local police
and an accounting number for an Italian-American social
club bore the name of Domenic Tortora. Harrigan folded the
wallet shut and placed it lightly on the dash.
“Domenic Tortora
i
s the Westchester Restaurant Group,
Michael, among many other things,” he said quietly. “And that was his little boy you left out there.”
“What do you mean, I left—” Biaggi caught himself.
Damnit! He was almost sure Harrigan was laying bait.
Maybe not. Harrigan seemed bothered by more than who the
kid was.
“This is beginning to stink, Michael. This is too god
damned much of a coincidence.”
“What coincidence?” Biaggi affected indifference.
“What you got here is two punks who get their kicks prowl
ing Central Park at night because cops don't go in there and
sometimes stupid civilians do. They see a girl and they fig
ure they'll rip off a piece of ass. Except the way it works out,
one local Mob loses one trainee who's probably a psycho anyway. The punk has to be related to somebody, right?
Why not Tortora?”
“Relax, Michael.” Harrigan's bright and ambitious spe
cial assistant was suddenly talking nonsense.
“And what was I supposed to do out there? Give the little
bastard mouth-to-mouth in case his old man had connec
tions?”
“Michael,” Harrigan said calmly, “let us pass over your
C
hristian duty for the moment. This very evening, I pointed
out two of Tortora's known thugs wandering about the War
wick Hotel. Then, when Domenic Tortora's only son is re
vealed to be the victim of our very own Jared Baker, you act
like there could be no possible connection.”
“It could still be.. ” Biaggi thought better of it.
“And the other lad in Connecticut. The one Baker
maimed to start off this whole business. Do you recall who
the father of that one was?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Some hack judge from the Stam
ford Superior Court.”
“Not some hack judge, Michael. Tortora's hack judge.
The man whose murder caused Baker to take flight. Curious,
isn't it?”
Biaggi opened his mouth to comment, but Connor Harri
gan waved him into silence. He needed a minute to back up.
What did he know? He knew that, murder warrant or not, there was hardly anyone who believed that Baker had killed
the old judge. Yet the warrant is kept alive. Why? To remind
Baker that he's a fugitive? To keep him from coming back?
There's a thought.
Then there are Tortora's friends. Mobsters. They had
been looking for Baker for a year and a half. Not looking hard, especially. Not even as hard as they'd look for some
one who stiffed one of Tortora's loan sharks. But looking.
The interest in Baker was there, all right, but it certainly
didn't have the smell of a contract. More like keeping tabs
on him. How about it, Baker? Why is it important that one
dog or another keeps nipping at your heels? Why, before
tonight, would Tortora even care? To avenge some batty old
judge? Hardly. If anything, Bellafonte was becoming an em
barrassment to him. Which, incidentally, makes Tortora a
prime suspect in his murder. But if that's so, why doesn't
Tortora just close the circle by putting an end to the fugitive
Jared Baker? Do you know, Baker? You don't, do you? So
why would you tempt fate so outrageously by
grinding up
Tortora's son? The answer, I think, is that you wouldn't. You
don't know who that was, do you, Baker?
And speaking of nipping dogs, the word is that old Duncan Peck has been busy strengthening his bench of late.
Telling people who owe him one that he might need a favor
soon. Dropping hints that his old friend Connor Harrigan
might be selling out or losing his grip or both. What's he
afraid of, Baker? What is it he thinks I'm getting too close
to? The fact is, between you and me, that I don't know much
of anything. Just pieces. I know that Sonnenberg is salting
spooks all over the country, but I don't know why. I don't
know what Tortora's interest is. I don't even know what
Duncan Peck's interest is beyond what he told me. Only that there's much more. With Duncan Peck, there's always much
more. But I don't have to know all these things, Baker, be
cause what I do know is you. I'm getting to know you bet
ter every day.
“Connor?” Biaggi rolled down the window to clear out
some smoke.
“Yeah?”
“So what do we do? Do we toss this stuff or not?”
“We don't toss it. We
.
...” Harrigan looked past Biaggi's
worried face toward the dark, wet treeline. He listened. “You hear anything?”
“Yelling.” Biaggi bit his lip. “Yeah, screaming. I think
Warren's discovered his suppository.”
“Sounds that way.”
“Well? Do we do anything?”
Harrigan considered for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Go
into the St. Moritz and call nine-eleven from the lobby. Tell the cop who answers that you're a guest there and you hear
screaming from Central Park, like somebody's getting
killed. You got change? You don't want the desk clerk re
membering that you—”