Nightbird (26 page)

A radio car from the precinct cruised by slowly. The heavily muscled cop driving had his bicep propped up on the door ledge.
He threw a glare to let them know they were trespassing on his turf. And he knew who they were. Danny wondered why it was
so important for some cops to establish fear. The weight lifter’s glare suggested he was one small provocation away from steroid
rage.

“They think we’re Internal Affairs,” Gregory said.

Danny knew that two white guys from different generations wearing suits would be perceived as being from Internal Affairs.
Cop reasoning went as follows: This neighborhood, this hour, who else could they be?

“Years ago,” Gregory said. “Everybody in the Detective Bureau used to wear fedoras. The same fedora. Cops would know we were
from the bureau because of the hat.”

“I left mine home,” Danny said.

“When you first got made detective they sent you down to Izzy’s on Delancey Street. You walked in, told Izzy you just got
made, he sold you the right hat. We all had the exact same hat. Ribbon band. Izzy always threw in the pearl pin. I still got
mine home.”

“Leave it to me in your will,” Danny said.

Gregory made a note on a Neary’s cocktail napkin with an old golf pencil he found on the dash.

“I wish your uncle was here,” Gregory said. “He knows the Bronx a lot better than I do.”

“What’s going on with him, Joe?”

Gregory looked up at the windows of 210 Echo Place. For a guy who’d been a cop over thirty years, he seemed unsure of what
to say next. He was not comfortable as the final word.

“Your uncle is a guy who dwells on his regrets, Danny. He thinks he’s responsible for everything and everybody, including
Gillian Stone. When something goes wrong he blames himself. Always did. Since Rip died he’s been eating himself alive with
regrets. I told him, as my old man always said, it’s a late day for regrets.”

“I think Eugene O’Neill said that.”

“He probably heard it from my old man.”

The same radio car passed them again. This time the recorder, a young black woman, checked out their license plate number.
Danny thought about how his own regrets had been eating at him this past week. He knew he hadn’t listened closely to Gillian.
He thought about his uncle, and how his granddaughter, Katie, would sit on his lap, look up at him. He remembered watching
his uncle’s face, the absolute concentration on every word she said; bombs could go off and he wouldn’t know anything but
her. He decided he’d give Abigail Klass another call. He’d learn to listen. Really pay attention.

“How about you?” Danny said. “You have any regrets?”

“Regrets?” Gregory said. “I’ve got a few. But then again too few to mention.”

“That’s the first Sinatra you’ve done tonight.”

“I must be slipping,” he said.

A male voice came over the Buick’s police radio. Gregory had switched bands to pick up local precinct calls. “Rat Squad on
Echo Place,” the voice said. “Rats on Echo.”

“Where?” said another voice.

“Two Ten,” the first voice answered.

Gregory ignored the veiled threats on the radio, as if accepting the paranoia of late-shift ghetto cops. Danny preferred not
to be the target of mistaken identity.

“Take a walk up and check the names on the mailbox,” Gregory said. “At least we’ll get something out of the trip.”

“Maybe there are no names on the mailbox.”

“Maybe if the queen had balls, she’d be the king,” Gregory said. “Go up and check the names. It’s worth a shot. Take two minutes.”

“What do I do with them when I get them?”

“You write them down, take them to Florida, and ask the people down there if any of them ring a bell.”

He handed him the golf pencil and another Neary’s napkin.

“What do I say if I get caught?” Danny said.

“Say you’re looking for Nilda Rosario. About five two, dark hair. A little mole on her neck, just below her left ear. Big
ass.”

“You just make that up?”

“Naw, she’s a broad I used to know. She lived in that apartment building on the corner. I used to visit her for those three
hours while the lye cop was getting treatment.”

“Thirty years ago and you think she still might be around?”

“It’s worth a shot,” he said.

Danny walked up the stairs and opened the vestibule door. The smell of disinfectant was strong enough to bring tears to his
eyes. In the ground-floor window a TV flashed blue behind the curtains. The light was dim, but he could see names written
on the mailbox. Above each mailbox, on a strip of fresh adhesive tape, appeared a name. Five names: four Spanish, one Russian.

A
fter he stopped following Trey Winters, Ryan caught the number six train downtown. He switched to the westbound E at Fifty-first.
At the Mid-Town North Precinct, he picked up his Olds, stuffed his bright windbreaker into his gym bag, and put it all back
in the trunk. He donned a black sweatshirt from his emergency clothes bag, then drove back to Faye Boudreau’s and knocked
on the door.

He could hear Faye’s TV from outside her apartment door. The sound of rapid-fire Spanish and a loud laugh track like Telemundo.
He knocked again, harder this time, and the sound of the TV stopped.

“Just a minute,” Faye said.

Ryan was ready to knock again when he heard footsteps coming toward the door. Locks unsnapped.

“I didn’t expect you,” Faye said.

“I just have a few questions.”

“You can’t stay long; I’m leaving in a few minutes.”

Faye’s face was badly bruised, her body language too tight, her voice too shrill. Something was very wrong with Faye Boudreau.
He felt the prickly hairs on the back of his neck. Ryan decided he’d ask her what happened but wouldn’t push it. He knew she’d
lie, and he didn’t want her to go off on a tangent.

“What happened to your face?” he said.

“Fell down the stairs. Going to the laundry room.”

She wore black jeans that looked new, and sandals with leather thongs braiding up her leg. The fact that Faye had been barefoot
every other time he’d seen her made Ryan think she truly was leaving. But over the black jeans was an old, ripped Florida
Marlins T-shirt.

“I heard the TV from out in the hall,” he said. “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”

“You grow up where I grew up, you learn to speak Spanish damn quick.”

“Pronto.”

“Sí,”
she said.

The bed was made. On it, a half-packed suitcase. It struck Ryan that he never considered she had a life outside this apartment.
A life outside her grief. The curtain blew away from the partly open window. First time he’d seen that.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Florida. Taking the bus.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she said.

He followed her into the kitchen. He felt the stove burners and found one still warm.

“Did you ever know Gillian to take a drug called Lorazepam?”

“I told you she didn’t take drugs.”

“Blood tests proved she had Lorazepam in her system, Faye. A lot of it.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

In the sink, a single pot soaked in red water. Except for slicing limes for beer, that was the first domestic act he knew
her to perform.

“Let’s talk about your last conversation with Gillian,” he said. “I want you to think about each word.”

“You always this thickheaded?”

“Gillian told you she was wearing the white costume, didn’t she?”

“She said she tried it on.”

“Do you know what she had around her neck that night?”

Faye fiddled with silverware and dishes, drying things that already appeared to be dry. Taking them from the dish rack and
putting them into various cabinets. The stove and counters were clean, wet swipe marks on both.

“Gillian came to me today,” she said.

“Faye, don’t.”

“Please, don’t think I’m crazy. Please, please, please. Just listen to me.”

She went into her suitcase and took out a plain white envelope. She took out a feather and held it between her fingers. A
small white feather.

“Outside on the street,” she said. “I was going to the store, and a dove came above my head. I heard it and looked up. It
just stayed there, above my head. Fluttering its wings. Making sounds. Coo, coo. Right above my head. Just staying there.
Then this feather fell.”

Ryan could hear street sounds from the street, high heels clicking on concrete. A gust of wind sent the venetian blinds swaying,
clacking against the window frame.

“I thought you would understand,” she said. “If anybody, I thought you would.”

Faye searched the kitchen for something else to do. She hadn’t made eye contact again. She was beginning to cry.

“I do understand,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.

Ryan told her about a phone call just days after his son died. It was a very young boy. He couldn’t understand what the child
was saying. He kept asking the boy to repeat the words. The boy made the same sounds over and over. Maybe infant gibberish,
maybe a foreign language. Over and over. Ryan became frantic, begging the boy to try again. Make me understand, he’d said.
He’d begged. It went on and on, until he couldn’t handle it any longer. He believed the voice was Rip telling him that he
was fine.

“I believe it was Gillian above you,” he said. “Telling you not to worry about her.”

Faye tried to push him away, but he held her tightly. Then she relaxed in his arms, breathing deeply and exhaling, as if letting
all the air out of her.

“I did a bad thing,” Faye said.

“Probably not as bad as you think.”

“I knew Gillian was going to die.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No. But I knew. I know what she had around her neck. White rosary beads.”

Ryan had never said anything about rosary beads. Gillian had to have told her.

“I gave them to her as a gift,” she said. “She told me she planned to wear my rosary beads when she played Maria. Then she
jumped off the terrace.”

“She didn’t jump,” Ryan said. “She was thrown off the terrace. Whoever gave her that drug threw her off.”

Faye looked up at him, startled. At first Ryan thought another gust of wind had caught the venetian blind behind him. He heard
the clatter, then it slammed back against the window frame as Victor bounded across the bed, two quick steps, and grabbed
Ryan from behind.

“No, Victor!” Faye screamed.

Victor’s arm wrapped around Ryan’s neck. They banged against the wall, against the refrigerator, glass falling inside. The
man was powerful; Ryan couldn’t budge his arm. He reached back for his gun, but it was trapped against the big man’s body.
Victor squeezed tighter. Ryan stretched his head forward, his chin digging into the huge forearm, then he snapped his head
back as hard as he could. He heard the crunch of nose cartilage. At the same time he raised his leg and slammed his heel into
the top of Victor’s foot. He pivoted hard against the open hand.

The big man staggered back against the wall, holding Ryan’s gun. He licked at the blood that ran down from his shattered nose.
The cop’s eyes recorded the pedigree: Hispanic, about thirty years, six feet, one eighty, thick black hair. He had an athlete’s
build, and his black eyes were fixed on Ryan.

“Don’t do this,” Ryan said. “I’m a police officer.”

“Please, Victor,” Faye said.

“Put the gun down, Victor,” Ryan said, hearing the name. He inched forward, watching his eyes. Beads of sweat like drops of
fine oil ran down from Victor’s hairline. “We can work this out.”

“Do as he says,” Faye said. “We’ll run, Victor. Don’t hurt him. We’ll go together. Fuck the money.”

Victor waved the gun at him, pointing him back. Trying to lick the blood off his mouth.

“Trust me, Victor,” Ryan said. “Let’s stop this. Before something bad happens.”

“Something bad has already happened,” Victor said, then he blinked, the sweat in his eyes, and Ryan reacted.

He slapped the gun hand away and drove his elbow into Victor’s throat. The gun fell to the floor as Victor let out a gurgling
cry and surged forward, digging in with his powerful legs. Ryan fell backward. His head cracked off the corner of the metal
bed frame.

Ryan could hear Faye yelling in Spanish as he groped for the gun. He was dazed and nauseated, and he could feel the swelling
above his temple where he’d hit the bed frame. The swelling came quickly, like inflating a balloon. Swelling, until the skin
could stretch no more and began to split. He saw the gun against the wall and struggled to his knees, reaching; but the big
man got there first. Ryan got to his feet and lunged; he wasn’t going to die on the floor. He clutched a fistful of black
hair and twisted, trying to lock Victor’s gun arm against the wall.

Ryan saw Faye pick up the bat. The first blow hit both of them. She came down hard, with a big high swing. The full weight
of the Bobby Bonilla model struck Ryan’s hand and crushed it against Victor’s head. The second blow caught only Victor. The
gun fell to the floor. Ryan dropped and cradled it into his stomach. He heard the door slam.

D
anny Eumont arrived in Tampa on Wednesday morning on the tail end of a tropical storm. He made two phone calls before he left
the airport. The first to Joe Gregory, who reported that his uncle was still in the wind. Even Gregory sounded worried, not
a good sign. The second call was to
Manhattan
magazine to commence begging the music editor to cover Lainie Mossberg’s rock band.

Danny’s head still buzzed from an excess of bon voyage drinks in Kennedy’s on West Fifty-seventh. Gregory had bought the first
drink, then called Ryan’s beeper. Three calls and three drinks later, Ryan still hadn’t answered the beep. One last time,
Gregory promised. One and done. Anthony Ryan never called. One and done was bullshit.

With a dry mouth and the sun overhead, Danny drove the rented Toyota across Old Tampa Bay, the tempting blue water flat as
glass. The rain stopped, and a hazy steam hovered over the roadway. Evan Stone had told him where he’d find Valentine Carlson,
the private detective he’d hired to locate Faye Boudreau. Danny called ahead, and the PI agreed to meet him.