In This Rain (29 page)

“Princess? Where are you? Is there a landline? I think this connection’s bad.”

“Luis? No, no, it’s not the connection. I

where was I?”

“You were about to tell me why you and me should stick our necks out to prove all this crazy shit.”

“Because it’s true, Luis!”

“Maybe they got a bunch of cowboys over at DOI, but the NYPD is gonna crap its pants, I tell them I want to look at Glybenhall.”

“Here, too. My boss already told me to back off. He wants me to turn it all over to you.”

“Oh, shit.”

“But I want to follow this up first. Luis, the more we have, the harder it’ll be for the brass to stop us.”

“I like the way she says ‘us.’ ” Perez paused. “All right, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll give you what I found. Then I’m gonna go work on some nice bodega robbery or something. Unless you can make a case so airtight even Walter Glybenhall can’t breathe in it, you’re not gonna mention this crazy shit again. How does that sound?”

“Thanks, Luis.”

“Forest and Stream Hunt and Fish Club, 77 Hughes Road, Golden’s Bridge. And in case you’re interested?”

“Yes?”

“Ford Corrington has no gun license.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I checked yesterday. I’m surprised you did, though. You said thinking bad thoughts about Corrington was crazy.”

“Just because you’re crazy, Princess,” Perez sighed, “doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

Ann called the Forest and Stream Club for directions. She took The Barber of Seville out of the CD player and slipped in La Bohčme. She blasted it, drove fast, worked hard on thinking of nothing but the music and the road. Twenty-five minutes after she climbed back in the car in Tarrytown, she was pulling into Forest and Stream’s gravel lot.

The half-dozen cars scattered around were high-end: two BMWs, a Jag; near the walkway, a black Lexus SUV and a white Hummer. Well, she thought as she pulled in beside the Lexus, the Boxster would feel right at home.

For a place whose mission, one way or another, was slaughter, the clubhouse at Forest and Stream exuded a jarring refinement. The wicker groupings on the stone porch were reflected in the upholstered arrangements inside. A glass counter displayed holsters, straps, and cleaning kits. The young man behind the counter had thick arms and shoulders.

“Yes, can I help you?”

She showed her badge. “The manager, please.”

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry— ”

“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t get the manager out here. You look like a nice kid. This looks like a nice job. You probably want to keep it.”

That got her a scowl, but also a request into the intercom for Mr. Onito to come to the front. Onito, thought Ann: Japanese? Latino? Irish, if you allowed for an apostrophe? A round, balding man appeared from a door at the end of the room. Ah: Italian, and ex-cop besides, if the mustache and wary eyes were anything to go by. “Tony Onito,” he said, as he neared. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Ann Montgomery, New York City DOI. I have a few questions about one of your members.”

He took her badge and peered at it, ran a thumb over its surface as though reading it in Braille, and handed it back. “You have— ”

“— no jurisdiction here. I could go get one of your locals and come back and he could ask the questions. But your members might prefer discretion to hair-splitting.”

Onito glanced at the only two members in evidence, an elderly couple zipping up matching leather gun bags. The woman’s plucked brows furrowed.

“Come inside.” Onito led Ann to his office. When they got there he shut the door. “All right, what is it?”

“Walter Glybenhall’s a member here.”

“Is that a question?”

“No. I need to know what weapons he shoots and what bullets he buys.”

“The club owns shotguns and rifles and I think Mr. Glybenhall’s used both, though he generally brings his own guns. Most members do.”

“And handguns?”

“You know the law, I assume? In this state you can’t shoot a handgun you don’t own.”

“What guns does Glybenhall own?”

“I don’t keep track of the members’ guns, Inspector Montgomery. He’ll have a permit for whatever he owns. Why don’t you check that?”

“I have. He has a permit for a Wilson Combat .45.”

“Then that’s your answer. Why are you asking me?”

“You ever see him with another handgun?”

“Like I said— ”

“You don’t keep track. What ammunition does he use?”

“It depends on the conditions he’s shooting in. Range, size and mobility of target, indoors or out— ”

“You ever know Walter Glybenhall to buy hollowpoints?”

“I don’t— ”

“— keep track. But you have records?”

“You have a subpoena?”

“You want me to get one? It’s a long trip back to the city. I might think of more things I need to know. What’s in his locker, maybe other members’ lockers, maybe your safe. If I don’t find the gun I’m looking for, I might have to drag your streams. You could be closed for days.”

For such a swarthy man, and with an outdoor tan besides, Onito darkened a surprising number of shades. “Is that a goddamn threat?”

“All I want is a look at your sales records.”

“My members— ”

“Look, Mr. Onito, one of your members may have been involved in a crime. That has nothing to do with you and it’s no reflection on this club unless you were involved, too. If you keep stonewalling me I’m going to start to wonder if you were. In fact, let me ask you: Is something going on here that you’re trying to hide? Double set of books, sloppy record-keeping, money unaccounted for? Guns unaccounted for?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what’s the problem? Let me take a quick look at what loads Walter Glybenhall’s been buying and I’ll be on my way.”

He gave her a long stare. Abruptly, he pivoted and walked behind his desk. “Shit. You know, I liked it better on your side of the line.”

“Pardon me?”

“Croton PD, retired eleven years. Used to be me throwing my weight around. Worked with a few NYPD guys, joint cases sometimes. Never worked with DOI, though.”

“You would have liked us. We’re fun.”

Onito snorted. He clicked on his computer and typed his way through a set of passwords. “Here we go. Give it a minute to sort by buyer.” They waited while the computer hummed. “Walter Glybenhall. Usually buys Winchesters. A month ago, ordered two twenty-round boxes of Explosive Entry from ExtremeShock. That what you’re looking for?”

“You bet. When did they come in?”

“The next week.”

“Did he shoot any of them here?”

“That I can’t tell you. Really. If he did, that brass is long gone. We keep the range clean. You wanted one out of his gun, huh?”

“Can’t win ’em all. Didn’t it surprise you, ring any warning bells, a member ordering lethal loads like that?”

“Why would it? They do that all the time, all kinds of twisted brass. ‘Just want to practice handling it, Tony. In case I ever need it, you know.’ ”

“Are they that different, in the gun?”

“You don’t shoot, huh? At DOI?”

“Only as much as I need to to keep my license. I’ve never shot a load like that.”

“Different-size loads have different kicks, but no, a flesh-cutter like that isn’t any different than anything else the same size. They just like to shoot ’em. Makes them feel like Dirty Harry. When the hell do they think they’d need a load like that? When the Apaches overrun the ranch?”

“Okay,” Ann said. “Thanks. This helps a lot. But tell me something else: Why the stonewall? You don’t sound like you’re crazy about the members here. Are you always this protective?”

“My members expect discretion.”

“There’s discretion, and there’s throwing yourself on the grenade.”

“I suppose I might’ve backed down a little sooner. But Glybenhall asked.”

“Asked what?”

“He said someone, New York cops, might be sniffing around. He said if they did, if there was any way to keep his private affairs private, he’d be grateful.”

“Did he really? And did he give an advance expression of his gratitude?”

“Of course he did. A C-note. Patronizing s.o.b.” Onito pulled a copy of the ExtremeShock purchase record from his printer and handed it to her. “My advice? Enjoy that badge while you got it. Nothing lives up to that once it’s gone.”

Sutton Place

Racing down the Thruway again, Ann speed-dialed Perez and had just slid the cell phone into its cradle when his voice mail picked up.

“Luis?” she said into the air. “It’s Ann. I have Glybenhall buying two boxes of those ExtremeShock hollowpoints, the ones that killed Kong. And bribing his range manager not to mention it. Call me.”

She tried Lowry next, but got his voice mail, too. This time she left no message. What she had was hot, but Lowry had ordered her to drop Three Star on Perez and walk away. This would need to be handled.

She wished she could call Joe. Maybe she’d buy him a cell phone. There couldn’t be any regulation against ditch diggers carrying cell phones. Or ex-cons having them, either.

Thinking about cell phones brought her face-to-face with what she’d been squirming all morning to avoid: the image of Jen, bloated, ashen, her hair snarled and dark with river water. Ann had never worked a homicide: it’s not what they did, at DOI. The only bodies she’d seen were falsified ones in funeral homes. But the scene that had burst into her mind with Irene’s call included flashing red lights, a body bag, even the scratching sound of a zipper closing.

Her eyes grew hot, threatened to spill tears. Think! Call the office. Get back to work. Someone, some cop, was working Jen’s murder and if Ann focused now, busted and sweated for answers, for justice, in the case she was working, maybe that cop would, too, in Jen’s.

She called her own voice mail. One message. She played it, hit replay, and listened again. Though it was short and unambiguous and she knew perfectly well she’d gotten it right the first time. A man’s voice, belligerent, unpleasant, and familiar. “I can tell you some things you’ll want to know. Come up to the Mott Haven site and ask for Sonny O’Doul.”

*

So this was it.

Ann pulled the Boxster to the curb and let it idle while she stared at Mott Haven’s steel frame, the bricks and concrete and pipes and wires rising behind the fence across the street.

Walter Glybenhall’s generous gift to the people of the Bronx.

Clearly not a Henry Martin. Now that she knew what to look for, she could tell. Too straightforward. No irony, no architectural jokes: nothing out of proportion, no elements missing, twisted, repeated too often.

Not that the lack of snideness made these buildings admirable. Two tall corner towers flanked a lower central section; flat roofs, neat white trim, square windows neither big nor small. Everything where and what you’d expect. The architectural equivalent of the Cavalier. Did its job. But no fun.

There was no way she was leaving the Boxster on the street, so she eased back into gear and drove to the gate. She answered the guard’s “Can’t park here, miss” with her badge. He shrugged, and thumbed her to a muddy expanse near a half-dozen trailers. She parked near the biggest trailer, a triple-wide, took the four steps and pushed through the dented steel door.

Right inside, no need to go farther: three men in hardhats stopped a loud argument abruptly, turned to stare at her. Two she didn’t know; her eyes swept and dismissed them. The third man looked older, more worn than the last time she’d seen him, but his lined face and defeated shoulders got no sympathy from her. No: a flash of anger. Sonny O’Doul had spent eight months in jail, right here in New York, close to home and family. Now he was back in the world he knew. His sentence was short because of his lies; and because of his lies Joe had lost two and a half years, lost so much more than that. What the hell entitled Sonny O’Doul to a tragic air?

“Help you?” one of the men said.

“Ann Montgomery. To see Sonny O’Doul.” She said this staring at O’Doul.

He stared back. To the others he said, “Just get that fucking pipe up there, I don’t care how.” He turned and crossed the trailer to an office at the far end. The other two started to exchange smirks; Ann gave them each a long, deliberate look. Their grins faded and they stepped aside to let her pass.

O’Doul’s office was a paper-piled wreck. Ann tossed a handful of files off a chair and sat.

“Remember me, Sonny?”

He stared with disgust at the papers she’d strewn. “I knew it was you, I wouldn’t of called.” He shut the door behind her.

“I was wondering about that. But it is me, Sonny. So this had better be good.”

“Look,” he said, sitting. “Reason I called, I don’t want to be messed up in no shit.”

“Spare me. You have no idea how little I care. You said you had information. I’m waiting.”

He gave a sour smile. “Always thought you were a hard-ass. From when I first saw you in court.”

“I am. And I’m still waiting.”

“How’s your boyfriend? He out yet?”

Ann stood, slammed the door open, and was halfway across the trailer when she heard O’Doul yell, “Oh, Jesus Christ! Why the hell is it women got no sense of humor? Come on, get back here. You want to see this.”

She stopped and turned. O’Doul stood in his doorway. A man stuck his head out of a file alcove to look from her to O’Doul. “Forget it, Sal,” O’Doul snapped, and the head disappeared.

“Sonny,” Ann said, raising her voice for the benefit of Sal and anyone else who might be in the trailer, “I’m a cop. You’re on parole. I can make you no end of trouble.”

“Christ’s sake, that’s why I called.” He hurried over, speaking low. “Quiet down! That parole shit. Like I say, I’m clean and I want to stay that way. Come on back inside.”

She gave it a few moments, to make him worry, before cutting in front of him and leading the way back to his office.

“I just want to do my damn job and have a beer at night. Is that such a big deal?” O’Doul dropped into his desk chair again. “I don’t know what crap’s going on around here but I don’t want it to come down on my head.”

“Didn’t like it inside, Sonny?”