Nightbird (32 page)

“We might have to wait for daylight to find this guy out here.”

“Unless he goes in the water,” Ryan said. “Take the paths along the water’s edge. Along the Hell Gate.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t going in the water.”

“I meant the Harlem, not the Hell Gate.”

They cruised slowly along the path, Ryan scanning the bushes with the flashlight, Gregory trying to pick up silhouettes in
the high beams. Ryan saw something near the edge of the Hell Gate Channel, under the Triborough. It was a mound of clothing.
Black clothing. One shirt, one pair of pants, and a pair of sneakers. One left, one right.

“He went in here,” Ryan said. “Go cover the other side. I’ll stay here.”

“I’ll leave the radio with you,” Gregory said.

“No, just go. Get going. It won’t take this guy that long to swim this. And tell Aviation to concentrate on this spot.”

Gregory sneezed for the twelfth and final time, then left. Ryan waited, scanning the surface of the water. The helicopter
appeared in seconds, scanning the water with the intensely hot white light. On two occasions Ryan thought he saw ripples in
the water, but he couldn’t be sure. The helicopter kept tightening the circle, getting lower and lower.

Behind Ryan, cars were starting to filter onto the island. The heavy-duty search beams of Emergency Services cut through the
depth of the foliage. He kept staring across the water, looking for the outline of Gregory’s Buick. He should have kept the
radio; he could have contacted Rose, gotten backup for Gregory.

Then the pilot scoured the rocky edge of the bulkhead, and the wide beam of light strafed onto the roadway of Shore Boulevard.
Ryan saw a car, but not the Buick. The old style, 1970s, was unmistakable, the boxiness pure Volvo. In the extreme brightness
of the searchlight he even saw the color was green, olive green. He kicked off his shoes.

S
o Jake Bugel told you my whole life story,” Faye said.

“Not everything,” Danny said.

“Ain’t much more to know. Tended bar in Florida. Let my sister die in New York. That about covers it.”

The upholstery in the front seat of the Chevy Nova was badly worn; little pieces of foam stuck to Faye’s black skirt. The
car smelled of brake fluid, onions, and BO. Faye held a small silver automatic in both hands. Her arms were extended around
and past the pint bottle clutched between her thighs. Danny asked her to put the gun away. She said Victor had told her not
to let it go.

“Jake told me all about Victor,” Danny said.

“Don’t let Victor hear that. Victor hears it, Jake Bugel winds up in some swamp.”

She made a knife-slitting motion across her throat. Danny could hear the sound of a helicopter off in the distance.

“Like the cop from Miami,” Danny said.

“Like him. Like Pinto. Like you, when he finds you here. Like all the fucking cops in New York. Victor wants something, nobody
can stop him.”

“I’m not afraid of Victor.”

Her laugh rumbled with late night hoarseness and too many cigarettes. “He’ll chew you up like Puppy Chow.”

“You said Victor killed Pinto?”

“Strangled him. Then he made me help him dump his body in the river.”

She took a left-handed swig of the rum. She’d killed two-thirds of it already. Her right hand, and the gun, were partially
hidden in the folds of her skirt. Danny turned slightly on his hip, toward Faye. Watching the gun.

“It was Victor’s idea to blackmail Trey Winters, wasn’t it,” Danny said.

“Yeah, but it was all my fault.
I’m
the one who told him about the safe in the first place. He took
my
key for the apartment, went over to the building, sneaked in the back way, and stole the shit out of the safe.”

Off to Danny’s right, the helicopter searchlight scanned the Hell Gate. He tried to look out at the water. A thick, greasy
film coated the inside windows.

“Were the pictures in the safe?” Danny said.

“What pictures?”

“The pictures, I assume, that showed Gillian and Winters having sex.”

“Who told you that? There were no pictures, just letters. Letters that had nothing to do with Gillian. I wouldn’t let Victor
do that to Gillian.”

“Letters?”

“Yeah. Paul Klass wrote these letters addressed to people who he was forgiving for shit, before he died. A couple were to
Mr. Winters, forgiving him for screwing over his wife’s father.”

“Darcy’s father… Marty Jacobs?”

“Marty Jacobs, that’s the guy. I never heard of him before, but Gillian knew who he was. She knew the whole story. In one
letter Paul Klass talks about these videos of him and Marty Jacobs blowing these young boys. Having sex and shit, with these
little kids. And Mr. Winters knew about the videos and used it to get something over on Marty Jacobs. So Marty Jacobs got
mad at Paul Klass for telling. Then before he died Paul Klass wrote all these letters forgiving Mr. Winters and all these
other people who fucked him over in his life. I thought it was a nice thing to do, forgive everybody. People should do that.”

“Victor was using the letters to blackmail Winters.”

“It worked,” Faye said.

“Not for Gillian.”

“Victor said Gillian wouldn’t get in any trouble, because she didn’t do anything. So when Winters asked her about the letters
that night, she called me, and I said… Yeah, Victor has them. Then she told Winters she could get them back. Victor went over
there that night to give them back. But Gillian was acting crazy. She said she was calling the cops on Victor, no matter what.”

“So he killed her?” Danny said.

“Gillian never liked Victor. She tried to get me to stay away from him. But he was my brother. What could I do? He was more
than my brother.”

“What does that mean?” Danny said.

Faye looked straight ahead. She took a deep drink of the bottle. It was almost gone.

“Victor murdered Gillian,” Danny said. “He threw her off the terrace.”

Faye waved her hand as if to dismiss him. Danny heard the butt of the gun hit against the bottle.

“He didn’t have to kill her, Faye. He killed her because he wanted the money. Like you said, nothing stops him.”

Danny tried to look out across the water. The windows were now foggier with the breath of two. He rubbed a clear circle with
the side of his hand. Ward’s Island was all lit up like Christmas with red turret lights and searchlights.

“He’s my family,” Faye said.

“Bullshit. He knew you loved Gillian, and he killed her anyway. For himself. For money for himself.”

Danny caught a glimpse of something in the side-view mirror. A figure in the darkness behind them. Crouching. Moving toward
them. He hit the button on his door, locking it.

“Somebody’s behind us, Faye,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I can help you. Just let
me help you.”

“You can’t help me, Puppy Chow.”

“We’ll find my uncle. He can help you, before you get in too far over your head.”

“Your uncle the judge and jury?”

“No, he’s Anthony Ryan, the detective you’ve been talking to.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Faye said. She banged her head against the side window, two, three, four times. Danny couldn’t see the gun; he
thought maybe it had fallen to the floor. “I am no goddamn good. Never was, never will be. Your uncle. Jesus. I wanted to
fuck him, too. And he’s your uncle. Jesus. Nice guys. All my life I’ve been looking for some nice guy.”

“Start the car, Faye. Just drive the car, please.”

“To where, Puppy Chow? Where can you go?”

Danny saw the man’s shadow outside his fogged-up side window. Faye screamed. The hulking figure grabbed the door handle and
tried to open it, yanking the locked door with such force the entire car rocked. The bottle of rum clanked off the steering
wheel and fell to the floor. Mouth open, Faye brought the gun up. The barrel clicked against her teeth. Danny lunged, wrapping
his hands around hers. The force of his weight slammed them against the window. The gun went off, shattering glass, reverberating,
as if an explosion had occurred inside the tiny car.

Danny’s ears rang in the silence, as Joe Gregory reached in and took the gun from him.

“It’s okay,” Gregory said, his voice soft, soothing. He opened the car door. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Faye Boudreau stretched her arms up toward him, as if he were the father she never knew.

V
ictor Nuñez dove deep and fast to avoid the spotlight. He didn’t know how far the bright light of the helicopter could penetrate
into the water. He dug for the bottom, then turned smoothly underwater and swam toward the rocky shoreline. He needed to find
a spot, an air pocket under an outcropping, a place he could breathe and rest.

The helicopter had destroyed his timing. Having to run across the island, instead of biking, cost him time and energy. Now
the copter had zeroed in on the area under the bridge. They must have found his clothes and shoes on the other side. If so,
they’d found Faye by now.

It was a good thing he had an alternate plan. Always have a backup plan, his father had taught him. This one he’d devised
because he didn’t trust Faye. Strange Faye, always so unpredictable. He didn’t know if she’d be there when he came out of
the water. So he’d stashed a stolen car, a few blocks south, near a small Queens park filled with dozens of indecipherable
hunks of metal they called sculpture. He’d attached a second rope to a metal pole at that spot to pull himself up. Maybe two
hundred yards away. But he had to get there underwater, and the crossing currents of the Hell Gate were stronger and trickier
than he’d expected.

Victor broke the surface quietly, for a quick breath. The helicopter was at its farthest point, an opportunity to surface
swim. He drove his powerful legs, pushing toward the shore. He needed a fuller, stronger stroke, but between the backpack
and the pain he could not rotate his shoulder all the way back. The shoulder was worse than he’d thought.

He didn’t have far to go, only thirty yards, but he lost track of the helicopter, and then it was behind him, its brilliant
spotlight fixed on the water. He dove again, turning over as he did. The bright light penetrated like a match through fog.
He reached out, hoping to touch rock. Pain shot through his right shoulder.

He stayed under for as long as he could, then popped up. The light was even brighter, the sound greater. The helicopter seemed
to be hovering out in the middle of the water, the surface churning from the wind of the blades. The outside edge of the spotlight
was only a few feet away from him. He dove again and noticed the backpack seemed to be getting heavier. He kicked desperately,
then his knuckles grazed rock. If he could only find a pocket in the jagged shoreline, a haven in the shards of rock formed
from the explosives of the engineers over a century ago. A spot where he could breathe, away from the lights.

His lungs burned as he felt his way up the shore wall. Then his head struck an outcropping. Don’t panic, he told himself.
With his back to the floor of Hell Gate Channel, he grabbed slimy rock, trying to find his way up around the cruel ceiling.
The gods were with him as he felt the curve of rock and the clear water above. He pushed and kicked. But he couldn’t rise.
Something was holding him down. He twisted and turned until he realized the backpack had snagged on something.

His lungs felt about to burst. He slid his arms from the bag and tried to wrench it free, digging with bare hands into the
rock. But he was too weak. He placed his feet against the rock and tried to use his body weight. But as he turned, he retched,
the sick air bursting from him. He gulped, his throat and chest in spasm. He gulped, taking in the filthy water. It soothed
him. Cooled him. Like the waters of the Sea of Cortés. A dolphin swam near, touching his face, wanting to play.

A
nthony Ryan had kicked off his shoes the second he saw the green Volvo. He struggled with his socks, pants, and jacket. He
managed the tie over his head, then ripped off the shirt with his one good hand. He was already in the water when he heard
a single gunshot. Breaking glass. The sounds went through him like an electric shock. Always a good swimmer, Ryan jolted ahead,
and he drove for the spot where he’d seen a head come out of the water.

It won’t happen again, he told himself. Not this time, not while I have a chance. It won’t happen. It won’t. He sliced through
the water, hardly taking a breath. The cold water felt good on his itchy head, and the blue hospital cast on his right hand
acted as a paddle.

Ryan concentrated on the spot on the bulkhead where he’d seen the head surface. But he had to squint in the bright light of
the helicopter hovering right above him. Someone was yelling something over a loudspeaker. He swam harder as the helicopter
came closer, the downdraft rippling the water. They’d mistaken him for Nuñez. No way he could correct that now. He hoped for
the best. Hoped some cowboy cop didn’t take it upon himself to pick up a high-powered rifle. He saw a knotted rope hanging,
probably attached to a roadway guardrail. When he reached the rope the figure had disappeared. Ryan dove. He wasn’t sure why.
His arm scraped along the slimy wall, jagged rocks, and pieces of metal. His foot touched something different. He felt around,
trying to make contact. Then he surfaced, took two deep breaths, and dove again. He scraped his hand along the rough walls.
Nothing. He pushed, telling himself to dig deeper. He tried. He tried with all his being. Then there was no more in him. He
floated to the surface.

Exhausted and starting to shiver, Anthony Ryan dog-paddled in the circus atmosphere. All around him were lights and movement;
bullhorns and sirens; cars, trucks, and boats. Cops yelled at him to stay right where he was. They called him by name now,
their voices reassuring, as if he were an old man lost in a park. Divers jumped from a Harbor Unit launch. The new NYPD, all
technology, equipment, and youth. Isn’t youth grand, Leigh had said.