Red Angel (3 page)

“The old bastard really got to you, didn’t he?”

Devlin continued to stare straight ahead. Then he drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “You turning into a shrink, Ollie?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Pitts reached out and gave Devlin’s arm a squeeze. He left his hand there. It wasn’t cop-to-boss talk now. It was friend to friend. “He ain’t gonna do nothin’ to your family, Paul. I don’t think he’d even let anybody go after
you
if they were around. And I don’t think he’ll even try to have you whacked again. Remember, last time he had somebody else he could lay the blame on, and the way it turned out, he gotta know even that was a mistake.” Another squeeze. “Hey, maybe he is crazy, like you said, but he’s not
that
crazy. He went after your lady or your kid, it would bring so much heat down on all the families, they’d never fucking forgive him. Hell, the trouble he has now would seem like a fucking picnic. The other four families, they’d get together and kill his miserable old ass, and then they’d blow up his fucking grave.”

Devlin smiled in spite of himself, the tension broken. What Pitts was talking about had actually happened. Frank Costello, one of the mob’s more notorious bosses, had died peacefully in his sleep. But the enemies Costello had left behind were still unforgiving, and almost a year after his death a dynamite charge had leveled his tomb.

He gave Pitts an appreciative nod, his eyes softer now. “You’re not half-bad, Ollie. A pain in the ass as a cop, but not too shabby a shrink.”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

“Just go stuff your face so we can get back to the office sometime today.”

Devlin’s office was on Broadway, around the corner from City Hall and two blocks from One Police Plaza, a brick-cubed headquarters building that overlooked the East River. Street cops, aware of the endless political machinations that went on inside, called the building the Puzzle Palace.

When the mayor had cajoled him back to the department,
Devlin had insisted his new squad be housed outside headquarters or any police precinct. Howie Silver had understood. Politics ruled the department, and anyone who trod on the very private fiefdom of the police brass was quickly ground underfoot. And even the mayor—though treated with greater subtlety—was not immune. During his first year in office, Silver had found himself repeatedly boxed out of high-profile cases when the police brass had felt threatened. It was the reason he had opted for a special squad—one that would handle those cases at his direction and report only to him.

Back in his office, Devlin went through the phone messages that littered his desk. There were four from the chief of detectives and three each from the chief of organized crime and the commander of the Fifth Precinct, where the latest mob hit had taken place—all the bosses his squad had cut out of the investigation. There was also a message from the mayor. It was the only one that would get a response.

Sharon Levy sat across from Devlin, a tall, shapely, beautiful redhead who made men’s heads turn when she entered a room, and whose sexual orientation had made her anathema to the bosses of the Puzzle Palace. She was also a gutsy, no-nonsense cop, and Devlin had made her his second in command despite howls of protest from One Police Plaza.

“We’ve got zip,” Levy said. “Little Italy is loaded with monkeys, all doing a hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil bit. This thing won’t end until the Columbo family nails Rossi, or until the price gets too high to keep trying.”

“So let’s up the ante,” Devlin said. “Pull in a half-dozen gold shields from the Fifth, and a half dozen from the Seven-eight. Use the mayor as your authority. You know the drill. I want the Fifth Precinct guys to work Little Italy. The Seven-eight Precinct dicks will handle Brooklyn. Their only job will be to roust every Columbo and Rossi hood who sticks his nose out of his cave. I want every bookie, every numbers
runner, every strong-arm punk dragged in. We find a betting slip, we bust everybody in sight. We find a weapon, we lock up every wiseguy within fifty yards of it. We find stolen furs in a back room, the whole building goes to jail. And I
don’t
care if every arrest we make gets thrown out of court, because as soon as they walk out the door, we’ll bust them again.”

“Hit ‘em in their wallets.”

“Until the pigskin squeals.”

“I like it. It’ll get their attention.”

“Yes, it will.”

Devlin noted the skepticism on her face. “I see a
but
in your eyes.”

“It’s more an
unless.
” She gave him a small shrug. “Unless they want Rossi so bad, they don’t care what it costs.”

Devlin thought that over. It was possible. It could also explain why the Gambino family, still run from prison by Rossi’s nephew, was standing on the sidelines. He gave Sharon a quizzical look. “What the hell could that old bastard have done?”

The telephone interrupted them before Levy could answer. Devlin expected to hear Howie Silver’s growling baritone, demanding to know why his call hadn’t been returned. Instead, the anguished voice of his lover, Adrianna Mendez, came across awash in sobs. Rossi’s threats immediately returned, pushed away only after he was certain that neither she nor his daughter, Phillipa. had been hurt.

After five minutes of soothing assurances, he returned the phone to its cradle and stared across at Sharon Levy. “I’m going to be leaving you with this whole Rossi bag for at least a week,” he said. “Providing I can get the mayor to pull some political strings.”

“What’s wrong, Paul?” There was genuine concern in Levy’s voice.

“Adrianna’s aunt has been in a serious accident.” He
shook his head and offered up a weak, uncertain smile. “Now I have to find a way to get us both into Cuba.”

The SoHo loft that Devlin shared with Adrianna Mendez was located on Spring Street, amid a collection of iron-fronted buildings that decades earlier had been home to glove manufacturers and tanning merchants. Later, rising costs had forced those companies to flee the city, and the architecturally unique district had been abandoned to the bums and vagrants who wandered in from the Bowery. Then struggling artists in search of large and inexpensive work areas had discovered the loft-warehouses that made up a part of each building. Within a few years the artists were followed by real-estate speculators, who sniffed the aroma of financial gain. Touting the area as the “new bohemia,” they sold the battered lofts to young stockbrokers and commodity traders and other upwardly mobile denizens of fashion. Soon the artists were driven away, save the few successful enough to afford the now pricey lofts. But the artists were no longer necessary. They were replaced by a collection of galleries and restaurants and boutiques, which seemed to sprout unbidden like wildflowers in an abandoned field, and the area, which had once seen animal hides stacked on sidewalks, became the city’s newest attraction for well-heeled tourists.

Adrianna had been one of the artists able to remain. She had moved to the area as a struggling painter, and the birth of the “new bohemia” had coincided with her sudden recognition as a major talent. The only other “old residents” were the bums and vagrants who had refused to leave. They were the city’s crabgrass, constantly reappearing despite all efforts at eradication. To Devlin they were the only mark of humanity the real-estate moguls had failed to devour, and much to the chagrin of neighboring merchants, he kept a
ready supply of dollar bills stuffed in his pocket to encourage their continued presence.

Devlin found Adrianna packing when he entered the loft. She glanced up at him over a half-filled suitcase. “I can get into Cuba from Canada, Mexico, or the Bahamas,” she said. “I have a travel agent checking flights for me.”

“If the U.S. government finds out, it’s ten years, or up to a quarter of a million in fines.”

“They won’t find out. The travel agent told me the Cubans don’t stamp your passport. It’s their way of helping U.S. citizens beat the embargo. So there’s no record of you ever having been there.”

Devlin crossed the room, lifted her to him, and slipped his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” he said. “And you don’t have to sneak in the back way. Howie Silver made some calls. Your license from the Treasury Department and your Cuban visa will be ready tomorrow morning. Mine, too.”

“Yours?”

“You didn’t think I was going to turn you loose in Cuba all alone, did you? The place is supposed to be overrun with sexy male salsa dancers.”

Adrianna’s head fell against his chest. “Thank God,” she said. “I was terrified. I just didn’t want to tell you. All the stories I grew up with, the stories about Castro’s storm troopers, have been playing in my mind all day. And the phone calls to the hospital in Havana haven’t helped.”

“What did the hospital tell you?”

She shook her head against his chest, her long, raven-black hair swinging slightly. “When I got the first call, telling me my aunt María had been in a car accident, I called the hospital right away. At first they couldn’t be more helpful. Then her doctor got on the line, and suddenly everything changed. He acted like I wasn’t supposed to know.
Like someone calling from the United States was somehow suspicious.”

He stroked her head. “You told me she was a respected doctor—even worked a bit for the government. That’s probably why.” He ran his hand down her back, trying to comfort her. “You know what hospitals and doctors are like when it comes to their own. They’re like cops.”

She shook her head again, then stepped back and looked up at him. Her light brown eyes were weary, and her normally smiling mouth was now tight and narrow. “It was more than that, Paul. The doctor was acting like I might find out something I wasn’t supposed to. I was sure he was lying to me.”

“What did he say about her condition?”

“He said it was
grave.
” She pronounced the word in Spanish—graa-VEY.

Devlin stroked her arm. “I put in a call to the American Interests Section at the Swiss embassy in Havana. The congressman Howie got to expedite the U.S. license and the Cuban visa recommended we do that. No one was available, but I left our number here. The congressman told Howie he’d make sure someone got back to us.”

“Thank God you have friends in high places,” she said. “When I called the State Department for help, the person I spoke with acted like I was crazy. He said I needed this idiotic license from Treasury, because everything involving Cuba falls under something called the Trading with the Enemy Act.” She shook her head again as if none of it made sense. “So I was transferred to the Treasury Department, something called the Office of Foreign Assets Control.”

“What did they say?”

“They told me it could take as long as six months to get a license. Apparently it’s a policy thing to try and discourage people from going there.”

“You told them it was a family emergency?”

“Paul, they couldn’t have cared less. The woman I spoke with was more concerned about throwing regulations and restrictions at me. Like, if I got a license and visa and everything, I still couldn’t spend more than a hundred dollars a day while I was there.”

Devlin grinned at her. “So, what’s the problem? You get a good hotel room, and you don’t eat. Or you can sleep on a park bench and have all the rice and beans you want. Makes sense to me.”

Adrianna leaned against him again. “I wish stupid government regulations were the only part of this that seems so wrong.” She fought back a sob, hardened herself against it. “But it’s more than that. Maybe I’m just being paranoid because I’m so upset. But somehow nothing about this seems right. The second person who called to tell me about the car accident acted so odd. When I asked who he was, all he’d say was that he was a friend. He wouldn’t even give me his name.”

“Wait a minute, what do you mean, the second person who called about the accident? There were two?”

Adrianna nodded, then seemed to think about what she had just said. “Yes, there were two calls. That is strange. I was so upset I didn’t even think about it. First this—” She stopped and rummaged around on a table until she found a piece of paper with a name on it. “This Colonel Cabrera called. He sounded very official, and said my aunt had been in a serious accident, and I should come at once if I wanted to see her. He said to call him back and he’d have me met at the airport.” She stared into his eyes and shook her head, as if trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Then, after I talked with the hospital, the second man called. He said he was a friend of my aunt’s. And he was, I’m sure of it, because he knew about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He asked if Señor Devlin was coming with me. He said he’d make hotel reservations for a double room, if you were.”

“How’d he know about me?”

“I asked him that. He said my aunt told him. And if he was a friend, she would have, Paul. I wrote to her about you all the time, and she even wrote back asking questions about your job, your daughter, everything.”

“But this guy, he wouldn’t give you his name?”

“No, he said it was unwise to do that on the telephone. He said he’d meet us at the airport. When I told him this Colonel Cabrera was sending a car, he said it would be unwise to let the colonel know when I was arriving. He said the colonel worked for State Security, and was no friend of my aunt.” She stared at him, hoping he’d say something comforting. “It
is
strange, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. I think we should just go, ourselves, and avoid both of these characters. At least for now.”

Something didn’t smell right, but Devlin didn’t want to say it. Not now. Not until she calmed down. He took her to their large, overstuffed sofa and drew her down next to him.

“Tell me about your aunt. All you’ve ever said was that she was a doctor who worked for the Cuban government, and that she and your dad didn’t get along.”

Adrianna looked at him as though confused by the question. Her features softened with thought, and Devlin realized, as he had so often before, how much he enjoyed looking at her. Adrianna’s nose was slightly too large; her mouth just a bit too wide; her light brown eyes too much in contrast with her raven-black hair, and all together it made her the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever known.