fuck away, unless you’ve got some kinda official business that’s got nothing to do with this cockamamie bullshit.” He stood up, indicating that their little talk was over, but he had one final word. “You go poking a stick around in a goddamn hornet’s nest, don’t come cryin’ to me if you get stung.”
Jack walked toward the door, bearing one small grain of satisfaction. He hadn’t had much of a plan, coming in here, but he had figured he would do exactly what Carpsio had just said: poke around in the hive with a stick and see what flew out.
Now he knew for sure what Larry Cosenza had only hinted at: this story wasn’t ancient history at all, and some thug much more alive than Joey Gallo was directly involved.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T HE MORNING SUN WAS bright on Coney Island Avenue and Jack shaded his eyes, thinking that it was time to dig out his sunglasses for the season. The light made him squint as if he had a bad hangover, which he didn’t; he simply had not enjoyed a good night’s sleep ever since he received his surprise visit from Darnel Teague.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Richie said, addressing a plump Pakistani woman in a bright blue sari, pushing a shopping cart stuffed with laundry bags. “I’m with the New York Police Department. We’re looking for people who might have passed by here at about this time on Monday morning.”
The two detectives were out in front of the deli again: it was always a good idea to return and canvass an area at the same time of day that a crime had been committed. That was the best way to find someone with a regular routine—commuting to work, making deliveries—that might have brought them by this spot at the same hour on the earlier date.
The woman looked up at Richie suspiciously. She raised her hands—“no English”—and then pushed her cart off down the block.
Jack stepped out in front of an elderly Caucasian man stooped over with scoliosis; he wore a heavy tweed coat more suitable for the middle of winter. “Excuse me. Do you live around here?”
The man squinted up. “Yah. Why?”
“Is there any chance that you might have passed by here at around this time on Monday morning?”
“You cops?”
Jack nodded. “We’re checking out an incident that took place here that day.”
“The murder, huh? Terrible . This whole neighborhood’s gettin’ shot to hell.”
Jack brightened. “Were you around?”
The old man shook his head. “Nope. But I’ll tell you somethin’.” He turned and pointed at the far end of the block. “Ya see those windows on the second floor? With the red curtains? Ya know why they’re red? I’ll tell ya: they got hookers in there! And nobody’s doin’ a goddamn thing about it!”
Jack refrained from frowning. “Thanks very much for the tip. I’ll pass it on to the vice squad.”
“My pleasure,” the man said. “You know, my grandson wants to be a cop.”
“That’s great,” Jack said, pulling out his cell phone. “Sorry—I gotta take a call.” He moved away; he didn’t really have a call, but he didn’t relish the half-hour monologue he was in for otherwise. The old man tottered off.
Richie wandered over. “It’s after nine. Whaddaya wanna do? Should we go back to the Brasciak angle?”
Jack shook his head. They could keep going, digging deeper to see if they could come up with anything else, but he kept thinking about the fed in his radiation suit.
He squared his shoulders. “I think I’ll take a little trip into Manhattan. Pay a visit to Federal Plaza. Our Homeland Security friend.”
Richie’s eyes widened. “You think that’s wise?”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s wise. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna keep plugging away in vain here, when this Charlson jerk could just save us the trouble.”
Richie nodded—“Let’s go”—but Jack put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I suspect some fur might fly here, and there’s no need for you to get caught up in
Jack walked toward the door, bearing one small grain of satisfaction. He hadn’t had much of a plan, coming in here, but he had figured he would do exactly what Carpsio had just said: poke around in the hive with a stick and see what flew out.
Now he knew for sure what Larry Cosenza had only hinted at: this story wasn’t ancient history at all, and some thug much more alive than Joey Gallo was directly involved.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T HE MORNING SUN WAS bright on Coney Island Avenue and Jack shaded his eyes, thinking that it was time to dig out his sunglasses for the season. The light made him squint as if he had a bad hangover, which he didn’t; he simply had not enjoyed a good night’s sleep ever since he received his surprise visit from Darnel Teague.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Richie said, addressing a plump Pakistani woman in a bright blue sari, pushing a shopping cart stuffed with laundry bags. “I’m with the New York Police Department. We’re looking for people who might have passed by here at about this time on Monday morning.”
The two detectives were out in front of the deli again: it was always a good idea to return and canvass an area at the same time of day that a crime had been committed. That was the best way to find someone with a regular routine—commuting to work, making deliveries—that might have brought them by this spot at the same hour on the earlier date.
The woman looked up at Richie suspiciously. She raised her hands—“no English”—and then pushed her cart off down the block.
Jack stepped out in front of an elderly Caucasian man stooped over with scoliosis; he wore a heavy tweed coat more suitable for the middle of winter. “Excuse me. Do you live around here?”
The man squinted up. “Yah. Why?”
“Is there any chance that you might have passed by here at around this time on Monday morning?”
“You cops?”
Jack nodded. “We’re checking out an incident that took place here that day.”
“The murder, huh? Terrible . This whole neighborhood’s gettin’ shot to hell.”
Jack brightened. “Were you around?”
The old man shook his head. “Nope. But I’ll tell you somethin’.” He turned and pointed at the far end of the block. “Ya see those windows on the second floor? With the red curtains? Ya know why they’re red? I’ll tell ya: they got hookers in there! And nobody’s doin’ a goddamn thing about it!”
Jack refrained from frowning. “Thanks very much for the tip. I’ll pass it on to the vice squad.”
“My pleasure,” the man said. “You know, my grandson wants to be a cop.”
“That’s great,” Jack said, pulling out his cell phone. “Sorry—I gotta take a call.” He moved away; he didn’t really have a call, but he didn’t relish the half-hour monologue he was in for otherwise. The old man tottered off.
Richie wandered over. “It’s after nine. Whaddaya wanna do? Should we go back to the Brasciak angle?”
Jack shook his head. They could keep going, digging deeper to see if they could come up with anything else, but he kept thinking about the fed in his radiation suit.
He squared his shoulders. “I think I’ll take a little trip into Manhattan. Pay a visit to Federal Plaza. Our Homeland Security friend.”
Richie’s eyes widened. “You think that’s wise?”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s wise. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna keep plugging away in vain here, when this Charlson jerk could just save us the trouble.”
Richie nodded—“Let’s go”—but Jack put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I suspect some fur might fly here, and there’s no need for you to get caught up in
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