rock-and-roller. Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. The chair creaked noisily. After a few minutes Beame came in.
"How ya doin'?" Mike said before he opened his eyes.
"Okay."
Reluctantly he opened them. He was the one who'd been up all night, going on thirty-six hours without sleep, but Marcus was the one who didn't look good. Mike noted the bad color, kind of graying out, as if Beame had been pickled. His skin sagged around the eyes and chin. No tone at all, and his meager lips looked thinner than usual. Mike frowned at the wrinkled tan shirt, the knot of his tie pulled down to the middle of his chest. Beame's tawny sport jacket was still hanging on the back of his chair. He hadn't bothered to clean up for the interview.
He settled in the chair opposite Mike, thrusting out his pelvis and legs. Already defensive. Mike didn't like the show of disrespect.
"You don't look so great," Mike observed. Neutral.
"Four hours of interrogation, you'd look a little ragged yourself," Beame shot back.
Mike sniffed. "So?"
Beame lifted a shoulder. "They've got everything I know."
Mike let go of a small smile that couldn't be seen under his mustache. "That's good. That's very good." He made a steeple with his fingers, rocking in Bernardino's creaky chair. "Let me in, Marcus. You were the last to hear Bernardino speak. What did he say?"
"All he said was he couldn't take any more nostalgia. Period. He was out the door."
"Anything else?"
Beame wagged his chin, then glanced down at the desktop where Mike was twiddling his thumbs. "I'm way behind here." He was chewing gum, showing his teeth. Being a shit.
Mike wondered if the gum was a cover for beery breath, and looked closer at Beame's face. His blue eyes were bloodshot, sheepish. Maybe he was a drinker. But maybe it was guilt about something else.
"What do you have?" Beame asked after a moment. It was clear his four hours with Internal Affairs hadn't yielded
him
any information. Too bad.
Mike put his index finger to his lips as if he were considering sharing. He stroked his mustache. A lot of cops had good mustaches. Mike had a great one. Not too bushy, not too in-your-face with the machismo. He trimmed it every day for discipline. He had a good strong mustache over the kind of nice, full, smiling lips that made women feel safe and didn't threaten men.
"A canvass of the area hasn't come up with much," he said slowly. "We're waiting on the COD." A lie. "When did Bernardino clear his stuff out?"
Beame lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. One day last week."
"What day?"
"Maybe Thursday or Friday. I was off."
"Who was here?"
"You can check with Patti."
"That the secretary?" Mike pulled out his notebook, found a clean page, and started scribbling in it.
"I wouldn't call her that. She does what she can, goes home at six. Her number is posted." He jerked his head at the clipboard where it might be found.
"What about ongoing cases? Anything specific to Chinatown?"
"Small stuff. You can go through it. They did."
IA again. Mike nodded.
"Don't you guys share?" Beame demanded.
"Sure we do." Mike changed the subject. "Was Bernardino working anything on his own?"
"Look, I liked the guy. He was tough, but I liked him. I knew him for years, okay?" Beame said. Now he was washing his hands of it.
So what? They all liked him. Mike prodded a little. "What was he into? Come on, was it gang stuff?"
Beame shook his head. Over the years there was always a variety of criminal activity in Chinatown. Extortion and protection, both Chinese and mob-related. Illegals working in sweatshops and restaurants. Back in the early nineties an influx of immigrants from Fu-jian had brought in unusually vicious gang members who didn't play by Chinatown rules. After a shooting in a restaurant, the unofficial officials of Chinatown stopped it. Chinatown had its own way of dealing with things. Mike was looking for a connection, a string leading anywhere.
"You're interested in the
"How ya doin'?" Mike said before he opened his eyes.
"Okay."
Reluctantly he opened them. He was the one who'd been up all night, going on thirty-six hours without sleep, but Marcus was the one who didn't look good. Mike noted the bad color, kind of graying out, as if Beame had been pickled. His skin sagged around the eyes and chin. No tone at all, and his meager lips looked thinner than usual. Mike frowned at the wrinkled tan shirt, the knot of his tie pulled down to the middle of his chest. Beame's tawny sport jacket was still hanging on the back of his chair. He hadn't bothered to clean up for the interview.
He settled in the chair opposite Mike, thrusting out his pelvis and legs. Already defensive. Mike didn't like the show of disrespect.
"You don't look so great," Mike observed. Neutral.
"Four hours of interrogation, you'd look a little ragged yourself," Beame shot back.
Mike sniffed. "So?"
Beame lifted a shoulder. "They've got everything I know."
Mike let go of a small smile that couldn't be seen under his mustache. "That's good. That's very good." He made a steeple with his fingers, rocking in Bernardino's creaky chair. "Let me in, Marcus. You were the last to hear Bernardino speak. What did he say?"
"All he said was he couldn't take any more nostalgia. Period. He was out the door."
"Anything else?"
Beame wagged his chin, then glanced down at the desktop where Mike was twiddling his thumbs. "I'm way behind here." He was chewing gum, showing his teeth. Being a shit.
Mike wondered if the gum was a cover for beery breath, and looked closer at Beame's face. His blue eyes were bloodshot, sheepish. Maybe he was a drinker. But maybe it was guilt about something else.
"What do you have?" Beame asked after a moment. It was clear his four hours with Internal Affairs hadn't yielded
him
any information. Too bad.
Mike put his index finger to his lips as if he were considering sharing. He stroked his mustache. A lot of cops had good mustaches. Mike had a great one. Not too bushy, not too in-your-face with the machismo. He trimmed it every day for discipline. He had a good strong mustache over the kind of nice, full, smiling lips that made women feel safe and didn't threaten men.
"A canvass of the area hasn't come up with much," he said slowly. "We're waiting on the COD." A lie. "When did Bernardino clear his stuff out?"
Beame lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. One day last week."
"What day?"
"Maybe Thursday or Friday. I was off."
"Who was here?"
"You can check with Patti."
"That the secretary?" Mike pulled out his notebook, found a clean page, and started scribbling in it.
"I wouldn't call her that. She does what she can, goes home at six. Her number is posted." He jerked his head at the clipboard where it might be found.
"What about ongoing cases? Anything specific to Chinatown?"
"Small stuff. You can go through it. They did."
IA again. Mike nodded.
"Don't you guys share?" Beame demanded.
"Sure we do." Mike changed the subject. "Was Bernardino working anything on his own?"
"Look, I liked the guy. He was tough, but I liked him. I knew him for years, okay?" Beame said. Now he was washing his hands of it.
So what? They all liked him. Mike prodded a little. "What was he into? Come on, was it gang stuff?"
Beame shook his head. Over the years there was always a variety of criminal activity in Chinatown. Extortion and protection, both Chinese and mob-related. Illegals working in sweatshops and restaurants. Back in the early nineties an influx of immigrants from Fu-jian had brought in unusually vicious gang members who didn't play by Chinatown rules. After a shooting in a restaurant, the unofficial officials of Chinatown stopped it. Chinatown had its own way of dealing with things. Mike was looking for a connection, a string leading anywhere.
"You're interested in the
Similar Books
