unspoken.
“It was his kid that died,” the desk sergeant offered, his voice finally taking on a note of sympathy. “You want to tell him what happened?”
Johnny Ryan shook his head. “Not that much to tell,” he said. “By the time I got there, the van was already burning. Some old wreck of a car had slammed into it.”
“What about the driver of the other car? Wasn’t he hurt?” Keith asked.
Ryan shrugged. “If he was, it sure didn’t slow him down much. He was gone before anyone could even get a good look at him—but don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
The other patrolman, whose name badge identified him as Enrico Hernandez, shook his head sourly. “Don’t know how—the clunker’d been stolen off a lot out in Queens last night. We figure it was some kid out for a joyride, but without any witnesses . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
“But somebody
had
to have seen it,” Keith pressed. “I mean, the middle of New York City—”
“You ever been over there at five-thirty in the morning? You could shoot a cannon down Bowery and not hit anything. Only people around at all were a couple of drunks, and neither one of ’em will say a thing. First one says he was poking around in a Dumpster, and the other was sound asleep. Said he didn’t even wake up until the thing blew up.” Then, remembering who he was talking to, he tried to backtrack. “I mean—”
“So nobody saw it all?” Keith asked.
“That doesn’t mean we’re not still looking,” Hernandez said, a little too quickly. “Look, we want to know what happened just as bad as you do. It wasn’t just your boy, you know. That guy killed two correction officers, too.”
But a prisoner on his way to Rikers Island doesn’t matter, Keith added silently to himself. “You guys happen to remember the names of the drunks?”
“One of ’em was Al Kelly,” Johnny Ryan offered, obviously relieved to at least be able to offer something—no matter how insignificant—to the man whose son had died yesterday morning. “Kelly’s almost always around that corner. He’s got gray hair—really long. Maybe about an inch taller than you. He usually wears three or four sweaters and a coat, and if he isn’t drunk by ten in the morning, you got the wrong guy.” He glanced at Hernandez. “You remember the other guy?”
“Peterson, wasn’t it? Something like that. Don’t remember ever seeing him before, but that doesn’t mean he won’t still be around.” He turned to the desk sergeant. “Any reason why he can’t see the report?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Not that I know of.” He pointed to one of the desks. “Ask Sayers. Just tell him what you want, and he’ll find it.”
Keith turned back to the two officers. “There going to be anything in it you haven’t already told me?”
“Not much,” Ryan sighed, shaking his head. “I wish there was—I really do. And a couple of the guys upstairs are on it, so maybe we’ll still find the perp, you know?”
“They here?” Keith asked. “The guys upstairs?”
The desk sergeant glanced at the board on the far wall, then shook his head. “Maybe a half hour or so. You can wait over there.” He tilted his head toward a bench that sat against the wainscoting—painted the same ugly shade of blue as the outside doors—then picked up a phone that had started ringing. “Fifth Precinct, Sergeant McCormick.”
“Maybe I’ll come back later,” Keith said.
But as he left the precinct, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be back.
CHAPTER 12
T he morning looked a lot warmer than it was, and Keith hunched his shoulders against the chill wind blowing down Elizabeth Street as he headed up toward Kenmare, which would run into Delancey at the corner of Bowery. Though he was only a couple of blocks from the collection of massive gray stone buildings that housed the city’s government, he might as well have disappeared into another world. Elizabeth Street was lined on both sides with buildings of
“It was his kid that died,” the desk sergeant offered, his voice finally taking on a note of sympathy. “You want to tell him what happened?”
Johnny Ryan shook his head. “Not that much to tell,” he said. “By the time I got there, the van was already burning. Some old wreck of a car had slammed into it.”
“What about the driver of the other car? Wasn’t he hurt?” Keith asked.
Ryan shrugged. “If he was, it sure didn’t slow him down much. He was gone before anyone could even get a good look at him—but don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
The other patrolman, whose name badge identified him as Enrico Hernandez, shook his head sourly. “Don’t know how—the clunker’d been stolen off a lot out in Queens last night. We figure it was some kid out for a joyride, but without any witnesses . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
“But somebody
had
to have seen it,” Keith pressed. “I mean, the middle of New York City—”
“You ever been over there at five-thirty in the morning? You could shoot a cannon down Bowery and not hit anything. Only people around at all were a couple of drunks, and neither one of ’em will say a thing. First one says he was poking around in a Dumpster, and the other was sound asleep. Said he didn’t even wake up until the thing blew up.” Then, remembering who he was talking to, he tried to backtrack. “I mean—”
“So nobody saw it all?” Keith asked.
“That doesn’t mean we’re not still looking,” Hernandez said, a little too quickly. “Look, we want to know what happened just as bad as you do. It wasn’t just your boy, you know. That guy killed two correction officers, too.”
But a prisoner on his way to Rikers Island doesn’t matter, Keith added silently to himself. “You guys happen to remember the names of the drunks?”
“One of ’em was Al Kelly,” Johnny Ryan offered, obviously relieved to at least be able to offer something—no matter how insignificant—to the man whose son had died yesterday morning. “Kelly’s almost always around that corner. He’s got gray hair—really long. Maybe about an inch taller than you. He usually wears three or four sweaters and a coat, and if he isn’t drunk by ten in the morning, you got the wrong guy.” He glanced at Hernandez. “You remember the other guy?”
“Peterson, wasn’t it? Something like that. Don’t remember ever seeing him before, but that doesn’t mean he won’t still be around.” He turned to the desk sergeant. “Any reason why he can’t see the report?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Not that I know of.” He pointed to one of the desks. “Ask Sayers. Just tell him what you want, and he’ll find it.”
Keith turned back to the two officers. “There going to be anything in it you haven’t already told me?”
“Not much,” Ryan sighed, shaking his head. “I wish there was—I really do. And a couple of the guys upstairs are on it, so maybe we’ll still find the perp, you know?”
“They here?” Keith asked. “The guys upstairs?”
The desk sergeant glanced at the board on the far wall, then shook his head. “Maybe a half hour or so. You can wait over there.” He tilted his head toward a bench that sat against the wainscoting—painted the same ugly shade of blue as the outside doors—then picked up a phone that had started ringing. “Fifth Precinct, Sergeant McCormick.”
“Maybe I’ll come back later,” Keith said.
But as he left the precinct, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be back.
CHAPTER 12
T he morning looked a lot warmer than it was, and Keith hunched his shoulders against the chill wind blowing down Elizabeth Street as he headed up toward Kenmare, which would run into Delancey at the corner of Bowery. Though he was only a couple of blocks from the collection of massive gray stone buildings that housed the city’s government, he might as well have disappeared into another world. Elizabeth Street was lined on both sides with buildings of
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