Authors: Edward Conlon
“You know, he really doesn’t like it when you laugh.”
Nick smiled, and Esposito stood at the threshold, half-worried, half in on the joke.
“So, how many straitjackets do I have to order? You, I figure for a forty-two long. My buddy in there, a little less.”
“I’m good, pal.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Matter of fact, the other guy, he’s calmed down a bit, too. I think he’ll stay that way, as long as he don’t see your face again.”
“That’s fine by me. Where do you figure we stand?”
Esposito exhaled heavily and sat down across from Nick at the table. Back to business again, a relief.
“I’m gonna have patrol take him to the hospital for psych shit. Observation. That’ll buy us twenty-four hours, and then at least another day in jail. What he said in the room, that would be your classic ‘spontaneous utterance.’ He couldn’t have been clearer if he’d put it on a billboard, but I don’t know how it’ll play to a jury. I don’t even know if I’d want to use it against him, bring it up at all. There’s a lot of noise he can make, if either one of us is involved. Especially with his lawsuit. He’ll say we set it up. And I did set him up today, sure as shit. He can say he’s persecuted, and the prick won’t be lying. There’s a lot of background to this, too much, and it’s not just in the background. I don’t want things to get too complicated.”
Nick was glad he was already sitting down.
Too complicated?
Esposito seemed untroubled by the ironies. He had work to do, and he was doing it. That much, Nick had to respect, and he strained to emulate him.
“Now that I think about it,” Esposito continued, “we’re better off without the statement, better off without any long story. Skip the whole
soap opera. As long as we get the gun, and we get DNA off it—it’ll come in anonymous—the case is about a project kid from a family with a drug history who shoots a guy with a drug history. Why? ‘Why’ isn’t our problem. If we get the evidence, we don’t need to deal with the reasons. You follow me so far, Nick? It’s not great, not terrible, but this is early, and we’re moving along on this. I like how it’s going.”
Nick didn’t know if he was genuinely persuaded, or was just desperate to believe the story could be finally contained. So many suppressions and exclusions, but that was how the system worked. He disliked the idea that Michael’s confession—the one truth they had witnessed themselves—would never be heard, never factor in whatever justice was done. Jamie deserved a public reckoning, and Mr. Barry had a right to know. Shouldn’t that matter more than anything? But what Esposito said made sense about how the case would unfold, and the end result was what mattered most. Nick nodded, thinking about what else was needed. “We got what he’s wearing. It’s good. The army jacket stands out. I’m sure he had it on this morning. You gotta take another picture, full-length, before he leaves. And we gotta cover every route between my house and his, see if there’s video. If we put him on the street then, we’re good. As long as Malcolm comes up with the gun, and we have workable ballistics and DNA. Then it could come together, but that’s four ‘ifs’ I count, right there.”
Esposito cocked his head slightly, allowed himself the hint of a smile. He strained to avoid seeming triumphal, but he needed Nick to believe in him again.
“See? If Malcolm was still in, we’d never have a chance with this. I know, it didn’t stop it from happening, but maybe nothing would have. It coulda been you, another cop, but it was gonna be somebody. And not for nothing, I’m glad it was a junkie instead of one of us.”
Nick didn’t know what to say; it was true, but he couldn’t bring himself to approve aloud. This time, the casual write-off of Jamie distressed him instead of provoking him. Had Jamie been only a junkie, had he stayed a junkie, he would have never been mistaken for Nick. Night sweats, withdrawal, daily temptations resisted. This was not the occasion for which he’d intended to rise. A knock from the interview room door drew Esposito back to it, relieving Nick of the responsibility of an answer. Esposito opened the door and half-stepped in to talk to Michael.
“Yeah, in a minute. Sit down. You’ll go in a minute. I just gotta get some information from you, then you’ll be on your way.”
He waved to Nick, and then pointed to his jacket, making a writing motion, for pen and paper. Basic information, that was all they wanted. They knew Michael didn’t have a criminal record or a driver’s license, but they didn’t have much to work with. Maybe with his Social Security number, email, they could find out more, something relevant from his military service or a murder-buff website. Nick felt slightly uncomfortable when he started to rifle through Esposito’s jacket, the new gray pinstripe. The notebook was where it was supposed to be, on the inside pocket, but there was no pen. Everyone was always out of pens; you could leave gold doubloons on your desk and none would be taken, but you could lock your pens in a steel safe every night, triple-barred, and there would be one fewer of them the next morning. No one considered stealing them to be theft. Nick checked the rest of the jacket, and was not surprised to find keys, mints, a decent cigar. He was not shocked to find condoms, slightly repulsive to the touch, even in their cool foil wrappers. He had not expected to find flowers, two flowers, roses, red and white, each a boutonniere with a pin in the stem. Fresh, supple, with a faint moisture on the surface, like sweat on fevered skin.
“You got it?”
“Yeah.”
Nick found one of his own pens and brought it over with the notebook. Esposito didn’t look as he took them, concentrating as he was on the other side of the door.
“Thanks.”
Esposito stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Nick went back to the jacket and took out the roses, to touch and smell them, to make sure they were real in the daylight. Yes, the two of them, the red and the white, cut fresh today. Even with a homicide, Esposito had found time. Nick took the red one and held it, sat down at his desk to think. It was Mama Ortega who gave them, not Daysi, but Daysi was the only reason for him to go to the store. Not to say that he’d heard about her and Nick, and he was sorry, or he’d heard about her ex, and he wasn’t really. Or to say both things, anything, just to get to talking. And there was only one reason to talk. Esposito didn’t make goodwill visits to kiddie cancer wards or nursing homes. Nick had no claim to her, but Esposito had no business trying to stake one. There were millions of women in the city. Esposito hadn’t created the situation, as he’d said before, but he would take advantage. After the intimacy of yesterday’s conversation—making
Nick swear about saying goodbye—it seemed sharklike, sublime in its indifferent purpose.
Nick pinned the red rose to his lapel, but took the jacket off and hung it on the back of his chair. He wasn’t sure yet how to wear his token, what it meant, only that he was ready to ride into battle.
The lieutenant came out of his office and walked over to Nick, who pretended to type.
“So, what do we got?”
“I think the guy who did it is inside with Espo.”
“Good. We gonna lock him up?”
“Not today. Soon, I hope.”
“What’s the story?”
“Mistaken identity.”
The lieutenant drew on his cigarette, then threw it onto the floor and stamped it out. He wanted to know, but not too much.
“They usually take a little more time to unravel.”
“Espo knows somebody, tipped him off.”
Lieutenant Ortiz nodded and smiled.
“Good. He’s the guy for this. What are you doing?”
The question was casual but inadvertently profound. What was he doing? What was his purpose, his place? Nick slouched across his chair to cover the red rose.
“Shit, you reminded me. Notification to the family. Neighbors say the father’s on a plane, coming back from Ireland today.”
Nick went on the computer and found the number for Aer Lingus. He was forwarded to five or six people before he was connected to a retired Irish cop, a security consultant. Confidences were exchanged, sympathetic stories, bona fides. Mr. Barry’s first name was James, Nick thought, just like his only son’s. He didn’t have a date of birth. Hang on, he could run him for the license, here it is, yes. Plus, he had an address. If the consultant could cross-check all the Barrys leaving Ireland today, it would be great, grand. He’d be happy to fax him something on official stationery, no problem. Seven-thirty, JFK airport. Nick remembered reading about what RFK said once, as he was flying in, “I wish they still called it Idlewild.” An Indian name, for “a beautiful place.” Those were the days, real brothers and real martyrs. It was five o’clock now.
As Nick stood up, Esposito walked out of the interview room. He came over to Nick, and threw his pad down onto the desk, to show him
his latest gain. “Look, I have his cellphone and email address. You’re gonna love this. It’s ‘G-HAD1.’ He doesn’t think we get the joke. We gotta get his computer, too, Nick. God knows what’s gonna be on it. We can get rid of him now. I’ll tell the cops downstairs they can take him. Hospital first. You know what’s crazy? He doesn’t know he killed someone else. He still thinks he’s getting locked up for trying to shoot you. Anyway, you’re right. We gotta canvass every possible street he coulda walked down. I’m gonna take a picture of him. Then we’ll go. You ready?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
Nick put his coat on, and Esposito saw the rose on the lapel. His eyes widened. The reaction was not as telling as Michael’s had been, but it had revealed as much, and there was no need to fret over whether it was admissible.
“Ah, shit, Nick. Don’t, don’t read into this. Where you going?”
“I gotta go to the airport, pick up the father. I gotta tell him. I can’t have him find out about it in the hallways, with the old ladies talking. It’s what I owe him, given the circumstances.”
“Ah, come on, lemme—”
Nick was out the door before Esposito could go on. He went down to the lot behind the precinct, took a car, and drove out to the airport. It was a slow drive, with bridge traffic, all the bridges, from Manhattan to the Bronx to Queens, island-hopping, down south to Jamaica Bay, the salt marshes. He got off the highway before the airport so he could walk around. An hour to kill. He had killed so many before, all of them, almost all. Esposito called several times, and there were more calls from blocked numbers. Allison or IAB? He was so tempted by both, for someone to talk to. Six calls, seven. He wouldn’t answer, waiting for whoever it was to leave a message, but no message was left. Broad Channel, that’s where he was, an island in the bay. Cops and firemen lived here, bungalow Irish and Italians, wary of outsiders. Little houses, some on stilts over the water. Tough people, living on sand that could be washed away in an afternoon. There was no one around. Nick put the car on the side of the street and headed toward the water. He found a sagging ash-gray wooden dock and walked to the end.
The sun had sunk to the horizon, glowing red like a banked fire, and darkness spilled out from the east. It was desolate here, but nothing was still. Crisp leaves shivered on scraggly trees, and breezes eased through
the hummocks in silvery shimmers, brushing the grass back like the hair of a cat. An egret strode along the shore, and gulls wheeled and shrieked above. Nick thought about the last time he had walked to the water’s edge, on the far side of the city, by Potter’s Field. He’d wanted to walk in. He had walked in, though not far. Nick felt no such temptation now, though his life had not improved since. No, it was worse. He’d had Daysi then, and Esposito had been his trusted friend. Now they had each other, maybe. Maybe she was pregnant, with Esposito’s kid; maybe that’s what the dream meant. He’d woken before she could finish the sentence.
And we want you to be the godfather….
Nick smiled, in spite of himself. A joke was better than nothing, even when it was on him. He tossed the flower into the water, watched it bob and drift away.
The sun was down to the last sliver when Nick turned and went back to the car. He drove slowly and parked in front of the Aer Lingus terminal, showing the airport cops his shield. He found the gate for the arriving flight, got a cup of coffee and waited. The phone rang again, from a blocked number. He hit the button without answering, waiting for the caller to speak. No one did, and he hung up again. No reception here, maybe. Passengers began to move through the gate, dragging luggage, looking irritable and relieved in shifting combination. Elderly couples in matching souvenir sweaters; young families carrying crying babies; practiced businessmen beelining for the cabstands, laptops in shoulder-strapped cases. More redheads than you would see on Continental or American. Toward the end of the crowd, Mr. Barry walked out, a shopping bag from duty-free in hand. He had a cowlick from sleeping on the plane, his sad old head nestled against an uncomfortable neighbor after a few breakfast Bloody Marys. He stopped when he saw Nick, pleased at first, but mostly confused.
“Nick! Hello! This is a surprise! Did you drive Jamie out? This is a treat!”
Nick shook his hand. He offered a curt, professional half-smile, shaking his head. He knew how to do this. He was even dressed for it, in a black suit. He was glad he’d gotten rid of the flower. Mr. Barry must have understood, but he resisted belief; he wasn’t talking to himself, either. Nick realized from what the older man carried that he’d checked luggage. They’d have to spend time at the baggage carousel.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barry. I have bad news.”
Nick could have been reading a telegram. Mr. Barry’s mouth contracted
and made irregular ripples, as if it were a machine graphing sound waves, stress levels. He shook his head.
“I … Don’t … Not yet.”
It was perfectly clear to Nick what he meant. They walked without speaking to the baggage claim and waited. Nick stood just behind him, waiting for him to point out the bag. The black vinyl tread circulated, empty. It had the aspect of ominous ritual, and Nick pictured them waiting to meet Jamie’s coffin, flag-draped, a casualty of a foreign war. The crowd leaned in, eager, mistrustful, and anticipating. Babies cried, and a middle-aged couple bickered, the man saying they should have driven to Florida, like before. Luggage began to spill out. A pair of young men with beards and sandals picked up backpacks. A stream of black suitcases and gym bags cruised through, and the passengers picked at name tags, appraising them as if it were an auction. Golf clubs, four or five sets. God, it went on, Nick thought. Mr. Barry the last passenger, his bag the last bag. Mr. Barry almost cried at the sight of his boxy old brown valise, and Nick seized it, leading them away.