Red on Red (28 page)

I
n the boat basin at Seventy-ninth Street, the fleet of sailboats and cabin cruisers rocked on their moorings, as gentle as sleep, masts furled, and guano-spotted tarps covered the decks. A dog walker with a hydra-headed leash held a pack of proud exotics, Pomeranians and borzois, and was being drawn forward like a fantastic carriage. On the green hillside, an aged man in black pajamas guided a tai chi class, arms raised, then drooping like wilted lilies. Two women with crew cuts walked by, singing a cowboy song, holding hands. There was so much to see in this part of the city, but it was not what Nick was looking for. He had a feeling he was being followed; he’d felt it for a while, on and off, like a ten-second flu, since Esposito’s observation about the EMTs. When his phone rang, with a blocked number, he answered without hesitation.

“Can you talk?” the voice asked.

Nick nodded, then laughed. Why was he making gestures to someone on the phone? Secrecy had become so ingrained in him, and the meeting was supposed to be face-to-face, with his heretofore faceless contact. “Contact.” Nick didn’t like the word, hated the whole self-important and self-conscious language of espionage, but he supposed it was better than “handler,” with its connotation of the dog show, the pooch on the professional leash. He half-expected a mud-masked figure to pop out from a trash can, or a man in black to rappel down a nylon line from a passing helicopter.

“What’s so funny?”

The shrewish response made Nick laugh again. “Nothing. Never mind. Where are you?”

“I can’t make it. Sorry. At least you didn’t have far to go. You only live
a couple of blocks away. That’s why I picked the spot. Anyway, what do you have?”

It wasn’t far from where Allison lived, that was true. Nick supposed he should have been grateful for the consideration; he was certainly glad of their ignorance. Esposito was right. These guys couldn’t catch a cold in a leper colony.

“Yeah…. What do you mean, what do I have?”

“Meehan, stop playing games. You’re not the only—”

The speaker stopped abruptly, but Nick could finish the sentence.
Not the only one we have on this, watching your partner, watching you
. A sly riposte began to form in his mind, alluding to the EMTs; he didn’t finish his thought, so he would be less tempted to say it aloud.

“We’re invested in this case,” the voice said. “We believe in it. And we’re going to get him, one way or the other. There might be federal involvement…. I won’t get into that. You can help, and we can help you, or … we can’t guarantee what might happen.”

The pitch wasn’t bad, Nick thought—resolute and high-minded. And the invocation of the Feds, with their vast and not-quite-rational power, their loose rules and life sentences, was an effective interrogation ploy, though a fairly standard one. He had made the argument himself, many times, often with some success. Had this man ever made the argument when it counted, to a murderer, alone in a room? The responses were fully formed in Nick’s mind, acid and accurate, but he said nothing, suspecting that the smart comeback was half the reason Internal Affairs was so durably focused on his partner. He had a courtroom speech at the ready, declaiming to the gallery that Esposito was innocent, innocent. Malcolm Cole was now working with them! And Kiko hadn’t even recognized Esposito when they’d first met. Did that fit with the claim that Esposito was on the crew’s payroll for a thousand dollars a week? But Nick knew they were not interested in his opinion. One way or the other, as the man said. IAB would have to get Esposito for petty violations, procedural hits. On patrol, they’d write you up for wearing white socks or signing out in blue ink. Or living where you worked. They could always get you on something. Nick said nothing.

“Guys like Esposito,” the voice went on, after a breath, shifting tone to something more genial and philosophical, almost man-to-man. “The bad guys on our side, who give us a bad name, they’re why I decided to become a cop.”

The pompous fraud was too much for Nick, even though he knew what he said next was a mistake. “When do you plan to start?”

It’s what Esposito would have said. Maybe they had started to rub off on each other, more than Nick knew, or maybe he needed to demonstrate to himself that his loyalty was not altogether lacking. He spoke again quickly. “I mean, what do you do next?”

There was no sign of offense, and Nick couldn’t tell at first if the man was thick-skinned or thick-witted. The second, he decided, after hearing the aloof confidence of the reply.

“We plan to interview Mendoza.”

“Who?”

“Miguel Mendoza. The, uh, survivor of last night’s shooting.”

“That’s standard, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, good luck. He seemed to be a man of few words.”

“You are, too, Meehan. That might not be such a good thing for you.”

Nick hung up and watched the tai chi class for a few minutes, until the languid control of the teacher’s movements made his back ache. He walked back to the train, a little pleased with himself for his petty show of solidarity, a little sad that he had no one to share the joke with.

T
here was confusion at the school when Nick asked for Grace Lopez. She wasn’t listed as Lopez but rather as Lopez Santana, the former name belonging to her father, Ivan, from whom she evidently wanted some distance. She answered only to Santana, her late mother’s name, and students and staff tended to accommodate her. That was the report of Sister Agnes, the assistant principal, who was doughy and brown-skinned, with a single black brow on her forehead that stretched out like the silhouette of a gull. She was Indian, maybe by way of Trinidad, but her faded accent had the singsong of Hindi, rushing from one phrase to linger on another, dipping and rising in pitch. She could have been just past forty years old, or nearly sixty, changing as little as her circumstances, or as little as she would permit them to change her. She wore a long skirt, a blazer, a veil of rough brown wool, a white sweater, and a wooden cross around her neck. She led Nick down hallways as they spoke.

“Grace just started this year, her first in high school. We have one hundred and seventeen students in her class—all girls, of course. But I recall Grace, because of what her father told me about the mother.”

“Which was …”

“That she drowned. Which touched me terribly, because my own brother drowned. He was with my father, a fisherman in Kerala.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. I cannot see how she is missing. She has not been absent one day. She has not been late one hour. She has joined volleyball, the yearbook…. Grace is a new student to us, Detective, but there is nothing to indicate she will not do well, or is experiencing any personal difficulties. Of course, you must tell us if there are any … household
issues … that may come to bear. The formation of her character is as much our charge as the formation of her intellect. How many days has she been missing?”

“Just one.”

Because Nick was taller than Sister Agnes, and because they were walking, she couldn’t see his face. Nick was glad she couldn’t. He had a feeling she would have hit him for lying so badly—hit him twice—first for lying, and second for doing it so badly. Nick didn’t know if Grace belonged with her father, but he thought she belonged here.

“Even so, for a child her age, she must go home to her daddy. Does it not seem like a loving home?”

“I don’t know, Sister. I’d met him before in the neighborhood, and he asked me to look into this. There’s no official report, not yet, and as far as I see it, there won’t be one. She’s not missing, technically, if he knows where she is. Maybe she told him she was staying with a friend, and he forgot, or she left a note, and he didn’t see it.”

“I hope so. Her father is making a sacrifice to send her here. Quite frankly, we are making a sacrifice, too. She has a scholarship, and it is not merely because she is quite bright, which she is. As I said, we were touched by her personal circumstances. But most of the families struggle to send their girls here. Many are immigrants. Almost half didn’t grow up speaking English. That is our mission. Our foundress, Mother Cabrini, is the patron saint of immigrants. Perhaps you would like to see …”

Sister Agnes had stopped, and indicated the entrance to a chapel with a wave. Nick stepped inside, and she waited, standing squarely in the doorway. The far wall was covered with a gold mosaic, with numerous figures of a woman in a sweeping brown habit, sometimes alone, sometimes with one or two others. The images were haphazardly patterned, like notes on a bulletin board. Below the altar, which was covered with white cloth, there was another image of the woman, lying down.

“I will take the young lady out of class and bring her to talk to you here. I have parents in my office; another teacher is speaking with them. Here is better, anyway. Mother Cabrini was born a poor Italian peasant. She came to America and founded hospitals, convents, schools, orphanages. She was an immigrant, like I am. She was a saint, the first American saint, which I will not be. Today, one of the girls told me it was important to save the whales because if there were none left, the ocean would be too
low to sail across. I did not strike her, but I was terribly tempted. It isn’t done anymore.”

“Cops are in the same predicament, Sister.”

“Perhaps so. In any case, the shrine is a place to reflect on our better nature, which will be suitable for all concerned. Excuse me.”

When Sister Agnes left, Nick looked around the room, to make sure no one else was there. She hadn’t locked him in, but the interview tricks were the same—place yourself between the subject and the door; arrange the physical circumstances to emphasize the authority of one, the dependence of the other. In the interview room, you try to put the subject in a little rickety chair, while yours is large and comfortable. Tricky, tricky nun! Here, there was no suitable place for him and Grace to sit together, and after he scanned the room, he decided they wouldn’t share a pew. They would stand, in the corner, he supposed; if Nick were a braver man, or a far worse one, he could have seized the high ground and stood behind the altar. He had to remind himself that this was not adversarial, there was no confession to be had, there was no crime here. This was a non-missing missing child, who had to be spoken with, who had to be told to go home. This was not detective business, not even police business, except in the broadest sense of service.

To serve Ivan Lopez, or to protect from him? How had his wife died, and why did his daughter run? “Cancer” had worked on Nick, he realized, “drowning” on Sister Agnes. Each story had struck them, had made them willing to travel with him, even carry him awhile, when they would have otherwise dropped him, moved on. Lopez must have been looking at the river, thinking about it, when he told that story to the nun; it was more troubling for Nick to wonder what had reminded Lopez of cancer when they’d spoken. Still, Lopez was likely no worse than a lost, lonely man who had scammed an excellent education for his daughter, and conned an experienced detective into becoming a private bloodhound to look after her when she was safe but not in eyesight. What was wrong with Lopez? Somebody should drain it from him and bottle it, and drop it into the water supply, let it flood through every sink in the city.

A few months before, Nick had called a woman to tell her that her son had been shot in the head.

“Grazed. Somebody called, from the block. I heard it was only a graze wound.”

It was true, the wound had been slight. And Nick had locked up the son not long after, for shooting someone else. And the son had been shot before, and had lived, obviously. But she had said “Thank you” and had hung up, with casual civility, like Nick was a telemarketer and she was presently satisfied with her service. He had been so struck by her response, that he’d looked up her background, expecting to find a crack whore, a parolee, but instead he’d found that she was not just not a criminal, but a corrections officer, a city worker. Why hadn’t she hustled detective friends, acquaintances, strangers, into being bloodhounds for her son? Nick wished he hadn’t thought of the dog again. Lucky, Brownie, whoever you are—tell the truth, bitch.

Nick sat down in a pew, in the front. His head hurt. He looked at the altar, draped in white, with tall white candles and bouquets of yellow roses above, the woman in brown below. Not a picture—a glass-fronted casket, the body in repose, head on a pillow, hands clasped. The garments were a deep brown, the color of coffee or soil, and seemed to flow around her, the veil, the cowl, the robe, utterly still, of course, but fresh-seeming, as if a wind had arranged them to drift and drop, just so. The face was a white mask, wax perhaps, as were the hands. They would have to keep that cool, wouldn’t they, or the sight of a saint melted to jelly would send the girls screaming to Buddha. Maybe it was ceramic. That made more sense. But it was the body that drew his eye, something in the contours, how the cloth tented the frame, gapping oddly on either side of a slight peak in the middle. That was it, the hip. The cloth followed the bone closely, dropping off from the ribs and picking up again at the pelvis, falling again below. The robes obscured the fact of death, at first, and then they magnified it. It made Nick somewhat uneasy, which he didn’t understand, because this was not even the first body he’d seen in the last twenty-four hours.