up this girl down in Human Resources, and she mentions Biedermann requested my personnel file. Not just me, turns out, he looked at job files of everybody in the NYPD who worked on the case. So I talk to Tommy MacArthur, he's my counterpart on the Newark side, and Biedermann did the same with them. We're wondering why he's so interested in our backgrounds. I ask, 'Can this guy just do that?' and the answer apparently is, yes, he's got some special clearance."
"The possibility of the inside link," Mo said. Yet another indication that's what they were thinking. It was one possible explanation for Biedermann's attitude, especially given his background in internal Affairs.
"Maybe, but dig this," Ty said, shaking his head and picking up some heat on the subject. "About nine months ago I had to go back for some oral surgery, about the tenth time over the years? So I'm back and forth with the vets administration for my records, you know, they're supposed to cover this shit, I got these bone chips in the gums and over in my mastoid. They sit there fine for a few years, then they decide to move around, give me pain." Ty grimaced and rubbed his jaw."So I call up Records, I know some of the people there pretty well by now, and this VA guy says, 'Hey, Boggs, yeah, I just got a request for your records the other day.' I'm thinking who the fuck, he tells me it's FBI, as a federal agency they have access. And I'm wondering why the hell Biedermann's going to go back twenty-seven years before he's gonna trust me to do my job, not have a sideline as a serial killer. And this from a guy knows damn well niggers don't do serial."
It was a fact that almost all serial killers were white, Mo reflected, almost none African-American. He could understand Ty's resentment. Biedermann's caution did seem excessive.
"Any ideas why he's thinking that way? What he's looking for?"
Ty shrugged. He took another cup of tea, this time swishing it through his teeth like a mouthwash.
They sat like that for a while, Ty sprawled in his chair, both of them watching as the restaurant began to pick up a few customers. One of the newcomers was a young Vietnamese woman who loitered near the register, obviously waiting for someone. She was wearing high heels and a short black dress that showed off her legs, the most exquisitely shapely legs Mo could ever recall seeing in his life. With her dark hair and slim figure, she reminded him just a little of Carla, and looking at her, he felt the bottom fall out, all the hopeless tender yearnings of a lifetime suddenly catching up. Like he had a hole where his heart was supposed to be. To make it worse, after a few minutes a comparably handsome young man came in, and the way the woman's eyes lit up broke Mo's heart. The guy wore pleated black pants and a white shirt with blousy sleeves, a Vietnamese Valentino. They kissed hungrily before going to a table, and their pleasure in seeing each other was too much to take, Mo had to look away.
But then, welcome distraction, the waiter brought their food. Mo's was a bowl the size of his bathroom sink, a nest of noodles in steaming broth mixed with slices of beef and whole shrimp and topped with a pile of cilantro and mint and basil leaves. Ty lined up his several dishes in front of him and went at it with his chopsticks, a man who knew how to eat.
"So how's Carla?" Ty asked between bites.
"I'm single," Mo said.
Ty's face twitched, but he didn't stop eating. "You knew it was coming. For like the whole last year."
"Yeah. But if it's not your idea, you're never quite ready for it."
"Got any other irons in the fire?"
Mo shook his head.
"Me, I don't even try when I'm in an oral surgery phase," Ty confided. "I'm enough of a son of a bitch even without it, nobody should have to put up with me."
Mo couldn't argue with that. Instead he concentrated on eating. The soup was delicious, the vegetables crisp and the mix of flavors always surprising.
After another long silence Ty said, "A
"The possibility of the inside link," Mo said. Yet another indication that's what they were thinking. It was one possible explanation for Biedermann's attitude, especially given his background in internal Affairs.
"Maybe, but dig this," Ty said, shaking his head and picking up some heat on the subject. "About nine months ago I had to go back for some oral surgery, about the tenth time over the years? So I'm back and forth with the vets administration for my records, you know, they're supposed to cover this shit, I got these bone chips in the gums and over in my mastoid. They sit there fine for a few years, then they decide to move around, give me pain." Ty grimaced and rubbed his jaw."So I call up Records, I know some of the people there pretty well by now, and this VA guy says, 'Hey, Boggs, yeah, I just got a request for your records the other day.' I'm thinking who the fuck, he tells me it's FBI, as a federal agency they have access. And I'm wondering why the hell Biedermann's going to go back twenty-seven years before he's gonna trust me to do my job, not have a sideline as a serial killer. And this from a guy knows damn well niggers don't do serial."
It was a fact that almost all serial killers were white, Mo reflected, almost none African-American. He could understand Ty's resentment. Biedermann's caution did seem excessive.
"Any ideas why he's thinking that way? What he's looking for?"
Ty shrugged. He took another cup of tea, this time swishing it through his teeth like a mouthwash.
They sat like that for a while, Ty sprawled in his chair, both of them watching as the restaurant began to pick up a few customers. One of the newcomers was a young Vietnamese woman who loitered near the register, obviously waiting for someone. She was wearing high heels and a short black dress that showed off her legs, the most exquisitely shapely legs Mo could ever recall seeing in his life. With her dark hair and slim figure, she reminded him just a little of Carla, and looking at her, he felt the bottom fall out, all the hopeless tender yearnings of a lifetime suddenly catching up. Like he had a hole where his heart was supposed to be. To make it worse, after a few minutes a comparably handsome young man came in, and the way the woman's eyes lit up broke Mo's heart. The guy wore pleated black pants and a white shirt with blousy sleeves, a Vietnamese Valentino. They kissed hungrily before going to a table, and their pleasure in seeing each other was too much to take, Mo had to look away.
But then, welcome distraction, the waiter brought their food. Mo's was a bowl the size of his bathroom sink, a nest of noodles in steaming broth mixed with slices of beef and whole shrimp and topped with a pile of cilantro and mint and basil leaves. Ty lined up his several dishes in front of him and went at it with his chopsticks, a man who knew how to eat.
"So how's Carla?" Ty asked between bites.
"I'm single," Mo said.
Ty's face twitched, but he didn't stop eating. "You knew it was coming. For like the whole last year."
"Yeah. But if it's not your idea, you're never quite ready for it."
"Got any other irons in the fire?"
Mo shook his head.
"Me, I don't even try when I'm in an oral surgery phase," Ty confided. "I'm enough of a son of a bitch even without it, nobody should have to put up with me."
Mo couldn't argue with that. Instead he concentrated on eating. The soup was delicious, the vegetables crisp and the mix of flavors always surprising.
After another long silence Ty said, "A
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