In This Rain (22 page)

Inside, the place was identically welcoming: scuffed vinyl tile, cold fluorescent lights, announcements and warnings Scotch-taped to block walls. Ann showed her badge to the sergeant behind the desk and asked for Luis Perez.

“Perez? There’s no— oh, Bronx Homicide. Interview Room 2,” the sergeant told her, copying her name and badge number into his log.

She clipped her badge to her lapel and took the stairs.

Interview Room 2 held a table, six chairs, a dozen empty coffee cups, and the smell of stale coffee. It also held Perez and two black men. One she’d never seen before. He was dark-skinned and wore the rumpled suit and weary eyes of a cop. The other, from newspaper photos and TV, was familiar: Ford Corrington.

“Jesus.” Perez stood, voice full of wonder. “How the hell did you do that?”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“Get here so fast.”

“DOI, on the spot.” She looked at the other two men and inquiringly back to Perez. In other circumstances she’d have introduced herself, but this was a cop shop. Appearances aside, until she knew better she had to assume one or both of these men might be a mutt, someone Perez had in the bag. You didn’t go around screwing things up by being all warm and fuzzy with another cop’s suspects.

“Guys, this is Ann Montgomery, Inspector, DOI. This is Tom Underhill,” Perez said. The rumpled man stood to shake Ann’s hand. “Detective, here at the two-eight,” Perez told her. “Tom and me used to work together years ago, at the one-one-six. And this is Ford Corrington.”

“We haven’t met, but I recognized you,” Ann said to Corrington. “I’ve followed your career.”

Corrington shook her hand silently.

“Pull up a chair,” Perez said. “You want coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, yeah, you only drink lattes. We could send someone out. They got a Starbucks on 125th Street now.”

“No coffee, Luis. So what’s up?”

“Ooh, she’s all business! Okay, Tom, why don’t you start? Don’t want to waste DOI’s time with, like, friendliness.”

Underhill turned to Ann. “We had three homicides in this precinct last couple days. Young blonde woman, two local gangbangers. Woman made the papers, gangbangers didn’t, but no matter what Edgar Westermann said at his press conference about how the city works, it’s them we’re interested in.”

“The suspense is killing me,” Ann said.

“The one we found this morning, Shawann Little, went by the name of Kong,” Underhill said. “Dead since Sunday. Three slugs, two to the chest, one to the head. The other was Thaddeus Tilden. T.D., they called him. Took a header from a building on 134th. Stoned to the gills. We figured he fell. But Ford has new information.” He looked to Corrington, but the man stayed silent, so Underhill took it up again. “According to T.D.’s girlfriend, Shamika Arthur, T.D. was working for Kong. ‘Making accidents’ on a construction site in the Bronx.”

“So Tom called me,” Perez said. “Me being the guy who caught the Mott Haven case and all.”

Ann, spine tingling, glanced from Underhill to Corrington. “It’s that site?”

“Shamika doesn’t know where.” Corrington spoke for the first time.

“There are a lot of construction sites in the Bronx,” Ann pointed out.

“Hey, I thought you’d be happy,” Perez protested. “If this is our site, we might have a homicide. You were asking me for a homicide. Anyway, we’re canvassing other sites, to see if anyone else’s had trouble. So far, nada. That means ‘nothing,’ ” he added. “To gringos.”

“Can it, Luis.” Ann was still holding Corrington’s gaze. “Do you know what he was doing, the kid making accidents?”

“No,” Corrington said. “His girlfriend described him as ‘climbing’ and ‘sneaking in and out.’ ”

“This Kong— what was his interest?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“What do we know about him?” Ann turned to Underhill.

“Kong got his start with strong-arm work, mostly building sites. He’d bring his boys around, offer not to stop deliveries or bust up the work, for a few bucks. Lately he’d expanded his line. Had a reputation for getting things done.”

“A contractor?”

“More of a go-to guy. We never had a homicide we could lay on him. But you wanted a weapon, drugs, a particular make and model of ride for your birthday, Kong was your man.”

“So maybe he was working for someone?”

“I’d say likely.”

“Or he had a grudge himself.”

“Sending someone to ‘sneak in and out’ is a little subtle for Kong.”

“Then who was he working for?”

Underhill shrugged and looked at Corrington, who said nothing.

Ann said, “I want to talk to the girlfriend.”

“She’s left the state.”

“Still.” Ann turned to Perez.

“Take a number,” Perez told her. “Tom and me, we got a homicide. You’re only corruption.”

“I’m the Mayor’s Office. Your boss works for my boss.”

“Ay, she pulls rank on me! That’s gotta hurt. Princess, have your boss call my boss. Until then, take a number.”

“Shamika ran away because she was scared,” Corrington said. “I’m not going to tell you where she is.”

“Scared of Kong, you said.” Underhill leaned forward. “Kong’s dead. He’s no threat anymore.”

“Whoever put three bullets in him might be, though.”

“You have a suspect?” Ann asked Underhill.

“Not yet.”

“A weapon?”

“Not yet.”

“Mr. Corrington,” said Ann, “how did you come by this information?”

“The girl called me.”

“Just to tell you this?”

“Yes.”

“From out of state?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“She works for me.”

“Doing what?”

“An administrative assistant. Sometimes she helps out with the kids.”

“I’ve never had a job where my boss was the first person I’d call if my boyfriend were committing crimes.”

Corrington shrugged.

“Even,” said Ann, “if my boyfriend were dead and I were scared.”

Underhill said, “That’s not so surprising here. A lot of kids in this neighborhood came up through Ford’s programs, over at the Garden Project. Some’ve known him all their lives.”

“I’m familiar with Mr. Corrington’s position in the community. What about these two gangbangers? Did they?”

“Kong and T.D.?” Corrington shook his head. “Not Kong. T.D., when he was young, but not lately. Except he started coming around sometimes to see Shamika. I thought we might still get through to him, even if it had to be that way. Thought it might not be too late. But it was.”

Ann sat back. “Walter Glybenhall’s the developer of the Mott Haven site.”

“We’ve never met.”

“You’ve traded punches in the press, Mr. Corrington. More than once.”

“Mostly, he’s thrown them. I quit when I win.”

“But he doesn’t when he loses.”

“What are you getting at?” Perez asked.

“According to Edgar Westermann’s press conference yesterday,” Ann said, “a group headed by Mr. Corrington was refused the chance to develop a city-owned site in Harlem.”

“It wasn’t Edgar’s to make that meeting public,” Corrington said. “And he’s premature. We made a proposal. The mayor’s studying it.”

“So you still have a chance at that site?”

“I think so.”

“Unless the city’s already committed.”

“That would be illegal. There’s a required review process that hasn’t even started yet. It takes a year just to get through that.”

“Then why were you meeting with the mayor this early? What were you asking for?”

He gave her a long look. “Consideration.”

“Ann?” Perez, again.

“The city can’t commit on the site,” she said. “But what if the mayor has? Informally? Under the table? What if Walter Glybenhall asked for ‘consideration,’ too?”

“Well, what if?” Perez demanded.

“How unpopular would that be in this neighborhood?” Ann asked Corrington.

“An under-the-table deal with Walter Glybenhall? Very.”

“Why?”

“Because bloodsucking gentrification doesn’t go down well here.”

“But if Glybenhall could show off a project in some other neighborhood? Low-income housing, the whole package? Something that worked well and everyone loved it?”

“He’d be the Great White Hope. Harlem still wouldn’t welcome him.”

“But wouldn’t it make the mayor’s life a lot easier? He could say Glybenhall was an experienced developer, the right choice for the site, look how well he handled that marvelous development in Mott Haven. It would give a terrific out to anyone looking for an excuse not to oppose the mayor. And if you wanted that site, you’d be left to fight Glybenhall on your own.”

“Then we’d fight him.”

“You’d lose.”

“You think Harlem couldn’t win on our own?”

“Glybenhall would eat Harlem alive. If Mott Haven went well.”

The three men were silent.

“But the playing field would be a lot more even,” Ann said, “if Mott Haven ended up a disaster.”

Corrington stared at her. Abruptly, he stood. “If you have an accusation to make, call my lawyer.” He pulled the door open and strode from the room.

Underhill rose, too. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, lady,” he said from the door, “or what that badge entitles you to, but you’ve got a helluva lot to learn.” He looked from her to Perez. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

“Shit,” Perez breathed after a minute, looking at the open doorway. “That that velvet steamroller thing they warned me about?”

“Who did?”

“Everybody and his monkey. You’re famous, Princess. Did you have to come on like that?”

She nodded at the door. “He’s kind of touchy.”

“Corrington? You expected him not to mind, you just about accusing him of some pretty serious shit? Maybe you missed this part, but the guy’s a witness, not a suspect. Came forward voluntarily with information.”

“Or a smoke screen. Two gangbangers too dead to say who they were working for, and a girlfriend conveniently out of town who calls in to point the way. Very handy.”

“Far-fetched. And hard to buy, you know anything about Corrington. And even if. If that’s what’s going down, we’d find it sooner or later. Us real cops, we’re not that stupid, you know.”

“Oh, put a sock in it Luis.”

“What the hell is it to you? Why the attitude?”

She stood, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. “The idea that Corrington’s mixed up in this makes me mad.”

“Why? A guy in his position, should be a role model, owes the community, something like that?”

Ann looked at Perez. “Are you kidding?”

“Then what?”

“I wasn’t looking for him to be the one,” she said. “I want it to be Glybenhall.”

Harlem: Frederick Douglass Boulevard

Ford stood just inside the garden fence. He’d had the short, fast walk from the police station to the Garden Project building to try to cool down. It would be lying to say he was now serene. But watching fourth-graders from PS 175 push trowels into the earth, tamp with childhood single-mindedness around young plants, and giggle at their muddy hands was going a long way toward slowing his heartbeat and draining the heat of anger from his skin.

It was late in the season for planting. But waiting made it more likely that the kids would still be interested when school let out next week. They’d come around to see how their tomatoes were doing, and it would be the job of the staff to find, in the gardens, workshops, and classrooms, reasons for them to stay. And the tomatoes would be tasty, anyhow, just smaller and fewer than if they’d gone in three weeks ago. It all depended, really, on what kind of crop you wanted.

“If I apologize, can I talk to you?”

He whirled to find the blonde DOI cop standing beside him. The wind stirred her hair; behind her sunglasses her eyes were unreadable.

“No. I told you, call my lawyer.” He cut around her and out onto the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry anyway. And I’m not interested in your lawyer. Or in you, really.” He listened for the sharp tap of footsteps behind him, ready to shrug her off again, but heard nothing. Turning, he saw her still inside the garden, facing him through the fence.

“What does that mean?”

“Ten minutes?”

“No.”

As he spoke, a little boy, running along a stone path— against the rules in the garden— slipped on a slick of spilled water. The cop lunged to grab him. She was fast and sure and yanked him to his feet a moment before his left knee would have cracked on the stone it was headed for.

“Whoa,” said the boy.

“If you’re going to fall,” the cop told him, letting go her grip, “turn like this.” She demonstrated, twisting. “So this part hits the ground.” She patted her own hip. “It’ll hurt, but nothing’ll break. Got it?”

The little boy looked at her like he was hearing English from a Martian. He nodded, then tore across the grass.

The cop took a napkin from her pocket and wiped the boy’s mud off her hands. She looked up, stopped as she found Ford still watching her.

“Ten minutes?”

He paused, then nodded. “All right.”

As she caught up with him on the sidewalk she asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why agree to talk to me? Because I did like Wonder Woman and saved a kid?”

He pulled open the door and stood aside to let her pass. “You move like an athlete,” he said. “You play college sports?”

“Track. All events but relay. I’m not so good on teams.”

“Basketball, Harvard, two seasons. Watched a lot of tapes of the competition. More time you spend with them, more you know about their strategy.”

“If that’s it, you’ll be disappointed. I have no strategy. Strictly instinct. I jump at whatever looks good.”

He glanced at her. “Maybe. But not without knowing how to fall.”

He led her up the stairs and through the outer office, picking up his message slips from Yvonnia. Inside, he shut the door, started to head to the armchairs by the window, thought better of it, and went around to sit behind his desk. The cop took off her sunglasses and stayed standing.

“We got off on the wrong foot,” she said. “My name’s Ann, by the way.”

Ford looked pointedly at the chair on her side of the desk and didn’t answer until she was seated, too.