The sniper_s wife jg-13 Page 20

Riley led them to the bar and to two stools either side of a heavyset, bearded man nursing a half-empty beer.

  "Hey, Zeke," Riley said softly.

  Zeke looked up at the row of bottles against the wall opposite him, as if he'd just heard a distant alarm bell that made him only mildly curious. "Who's your friend?"

  His voice was gravelly and low-pitched, somewhere in the suburbs of Louis Armstrong, except that he was white.

  "He's shy," Riley answered. "You got what I'm after?"

  "Sure." Zeke took a long pull on his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What d'you want with an old dog like Manotti? He's barely breathin' anymore."

  The bartender approached. Riley ordered a beer, Willy a black coffee. Riley slid two twenties in front of Zeke, who had them enveloped in his fist almost before they touched the bar top.

  Zeke, still staring at the bottles before him, said, "He's the one in the corner booth, facing the door like anyone cared about him anymore. Fat guy with the three hairs combed over the top."

  Willy glanced at the man as he reached for some pretzels. Manotti was eating alone, and seemed almost done with his meal.

  "He in a car or on foot?" he asked.

  The bearded man slowly swung his head around to look at him and raised his eyebrows. "Wow. It talks."

  "It can also shove that bottle up your ass."

  Zeke returned to his earlier, meditative posture. "I liked you better before. He's on foot."

  "What's his address?" Riley asked.

  "My, my, you boys are demanding," he said, but he gave them an address nearby.

  "Now leave," Willy ordered.

  From his body language, Zeke looked ready to protest, or at least proffer up some face-saving witticism, but he apparently thought better of it, and muttered, "Next time you're shoppin', don't call me, okay?" as he slid off the stool.

  Riley waited until he'd left the bar, and then told Willy, "That was useful. Thanks."

  Willy drank from his coffee. "Too goddamned chatty," he said, and as if to set an example, stopped at that.

  Riley smiled and shook his head slightly. "You always this much fun?"

  Willy didn't answer.

  "There was a guy like you in the neighborhood when I was a kid," Riley told him. "Real sour, never had anything good to say. We stayed out of his way or we cranked him up, depending on how many there were of us. My grandmother used to let me have it when she heard me criticizing him, though. They weren't friends or anything, but she said anyone like that had to have had things a lot tougher than we did, 'cause nobody gets born that way."

  Willy kept at his coffee. He'd thought about that, of course, blaming his father for abandoning them, his mother for never owning up to it. And, in fact, it had been a little weird-one day the old man had been in the house, the next he wasn't, not a single person anywhere saying a word about it. Not once. The last communication Willy remembered-the night before his father left-was being slapped across the face by him because Willy had dropped his spoon at the table.

  But lots of kids lost their fathers, or were turned into punching bags, or who knew what else. Willy hadn't suffered as much as most of them.

  What people didn't understand was that it was kind of liberating to speak his mind when he felt like it, to live with his curmudgeon's reputation. It disentangled him from other people, and he'd come to see that as a blessing.

  Willy put his cup down and rubbed his eyes with his hand, pushing hard enough to cause stars.

  "Looks like he's on the move," Riley said, breaking into Willy's meditations.

  Willy turned discreetly to see Lenny Manotti settling his bill.

  So much for deep thinking. They let Manotti get halfway down the block before leaving the bar and tailing him. If there ever had been a period when the old man had shoved his weight around and needed protection, it was apparently a long time back. Now he sauntered along nonchalantly, one hand working a toothpick, the other buried in a pocket, occasionally waving to some acquaintance on the street. Another retiree enjoying the twilight years.

  They'd discussed what approach to take, the most obvious being the one Willy had used on Carlos Barzun. Riley's information was that despite Manotti's current inoffensiveness, he hadn't been a gentle player when he'd been in the game. But he was toothless now, unlike La Culebra, and capable of striking a time-wasting toughguy pose from pure nostalgia.

  As a result, Willy had decided not to give him the option.

  Riley hadn't argued the point. Odd as it appeared, he'd discovered in Willy a man whose combat sense he could trust. It had been for him the rediscovery of one Vietnam experience he hadn't expected to ever feel again: a bonding not based on shared backgrounds or cultures, but on the other guy's proven ability to get the job done. Riley had no delusions about Willy's survival skills-the latter seemed devoted to his own self-destruction in a loopy, roundabout way-but Riley did believe that following his lead might well result in avenging Nate's death, while leaving his own skin intact.

  Any further sentiment didn't apply, and clearly wasn't asked for.

  Manotti lived in a bland apartment building of no architectural merit-merely one of those square brick blocks with dozens of windows, reminiscent of a child's drawing. Willy picked up his pace, leaving Riley behind, and reached the lobby just as Manotti was digging into his pocket for his keys. Willy was holding his dead pager up to his ear as if it were a cell phone.

  "Look," he said in a slightly argumentative tone as he came up behind the old man, "I don't care what he told you. We settled on that price a week ago. He can't expect me to move this kind of deal and then have all the numbers change… Hang on a sec. I gotta get my door key."

  He made a show of trying to keep the fake phone wedged against his cheek while fumbling deep in his pocket for the fictional keys. Manotti noticed the effort as he unlocked the door, correctly interpreting Willy's pleading expression, and held the door open for him to pass through.

  "Thanks, man," Willy murmured with a quick smile. "It's been a hell of a day."

  He regained control of the pager and said, "No, I was talking to somebody else. Harry, tell me exactly what he told you. I wanna hear if maybe I missed something the first time around, like maybe what a crook this guy is."

  Together, Manotti and Willy walked the length of the building's inner foyer and arrived at the waiting elevator around the corner.

  "He said what?" Willy said eventually, his voice rising. "That doesn't sound even vaguely right. I got the contract upstairs, unless he sent me something new in the meantime… Shit." He held the pager against his chest as Manotti pushed the button for the third floor. "Mister," he explained, "I hate to be a pain, especially after you helped me out, but I forgot to check my mail and I gotta get to my apartment fast. Could you hold the door?"

  After a pleasant dinner out, and being flattered for his courtesy, Manotti wasn't inclined to turn him down. He nodded, said, "Sure," and placed his hand against the doorjamb.

  Willy jogged back the way they'd come, opened the door for the waiting Riley, gave him the floor number, and retraced his steps, pretending as he rounded the corner to be stuffing something into his inner pocket. "Hang on, Harry. I'm doing two things at once." He rejoined the old man, nodded his thanks, and said, "Four. I really appreciate it," as Manotti waved inquiringly at the elevator's control panel. Willy then spoke into his fake phone, "No. Just junk mail and a bill. All right, tell me exactly what he said."

  For the rest of the trip up, all Willy had to do was make facial expressions and an occasional comment to fulfill what remained of his charade. On the third floor, he raised his eyebrows in grateful parting to Manotti, who waved back, and waited for the doors to close before replacing the pager on his belt. On the next floor, he ran down the hallway, found the stairwell, and doublestepped down one flight.

  He carefully poked his head into the hallway, looking both ways, and saw Riley leaning against the wall to the left, out of breath from his quick climb
up three stories.

  Riley met him halfway. "Number 340," he said in an undertone. "Lucky for me he doesn't live on the top floor. No dog met him at the door and all the lights were out when he opened the door. He's gotta live alone. You want to hit him now?"

  Willy shrugged. "No reason not to."

  They quietly returned to Manotti's apartment door. Willy stood directly opposite the peephole. Riley flattened against the wall near the doorknob.

  Willy rang the buzzer.

  They heard a man's heavy tread approach. "Yeah?"

  "It's Randy," Willy said brightly. "Remember? From the elevator just now. You dropped this just as you stepped out. At least it has your address on it." He held a checkbook up too close to the peephole for anyone to see what it was.

  It didn't matter in any case. The lock was already being snapped open. As the door swung back, Riley whipped around from where he'd been hiding and charged through the opening, his shoulder leading, with Willy close behind. They were both inside, the door closed behind them, before Lenny Manotti had stopped sliding across the floor on his back.

  Riley was down on one knee beside him, one large hand clamped across his mouth, before he'd been able to utter a sound. Willy stood at his feet, pointing a gun at him.

  "Hi, Lenny," he said in a quiet voice. "We're the ghosts from Christmas past. You wanna play ball, or should I shoot you right now? Nod if it's the first."

  Manotti nodded once. Slowly, Riley removed his hand. At that, Manotti narrowed his eyes. "Who are you fuckin' assholes? I don't know you."

  Willy put on a disappointed look. "You hear what he called us? Guess we better turn up the heat."

  Riley grabbed Manotti by the scruff of the neck and yanked him up like a mannequin. He dragged him into the living room beyond the entrance hall and slammed him down into a chair. He then pulled some duct tape from his coat pocket and began strapping the older man down.

  Manotti licked his lips. "What the hell d'you want? Maybe we can make a deal."

  Willy smiled, moving a chair opposite his victim and sitting in it so they were virtually knee to knee. "I like that. We're not after much. Problem is, I want it to be the truth. You could tell us anything you wanted to get us out of your hair, and by the time we found that out, you'd have rounded up some of your old buddies."

  "I'm retired," Manotti protested. "What do I give a fuck about that shit anymore? What d'ya wanna know, fer Christ's sake? This is stupid."

  Willy laughed. "Makes me wonder how many times you did the same thing in your prime. Or did Cashman do it for you?"

  Manotti scowled. "You friends with that bum? I shoulda guessed. Couple of fuckin' leg breakers. No style."

  "Right. So says the artist. Spare me, Lenny. Actually, we're not friends of Cashman. Haven't seen him in a long time. What's he up to?"

  "Who cares?"

  Willy leaned forward, suddenly menacing. A switchblade had appeared in his hand and was now resting on Manotti's upper lip, forcing him to cross his eyes as he stared at it.

  "What the-"

  Willy interrupted him with a tiny jab. "That's the question, Lenny. Truth or consequences. Where do we find Cashman?"

  The other man's eyes widened. "That's what this is about? That asshole? Shit. You coulda asked me that in the elevator, I woulda told you. You guys're crazy. Fuckin' boneheads."

  Willy was losing patience. The knife tip eased into one of Manotti's nostrils.

  "Hey, hey," he said, careful not to move.

  "Don't give me etiquette," Willy said menacingly. "Give me what I want."

  "All right, all right. Jesus Christ. Last I knew, he was hanging around the Carroll Gardens area, either on Clinton or Henry. I don't keep in touch."

  Willy laughed at the cliche. "Doesn't mean you won't drop a dime and let him know we came asking."

  Despite his precarious position, Manotti flared, "What's with you? You dumb and ugly both? I told you I think the guy's an asshole. You wanna take him out, be my frigging guest." He leaned forward slightly, making his nose bleed, and yelled, "I don't give a fuck."

  Willy sat back and glanced at Riley. "You believe him, Reuben?"

  Riley was standing out of Manotti's view and rolled his eyes at the name. He spoke for the first time since entering the apartment. "Sure."

  "I guess I do, too. Who's Cashman working for nowadays?"

  "He's a freelance," Manotti answered, calmer now that he felt he'd made his point. "That's the biggest reason we split up. I thought he was ripping me off; he thought I was too much the big boss. It's not like I miss him, the guy was a thug."

  Willy stood up and moved the chair he'd been sitting on. "Wild guess: You wouldn't want us coming back. Am I right?"

  Riley had removed enough duct tape so Manotti could bring his hand up to his nose and touch it gingerly.

  "No shit."

  "You got anything to add, then? Some way we could find Cashman extra fast?"

  Manotti examined his fingertips for blood, finding only a drop. "Go to that neighborhood and ask for a cold gun. That oughtta flush him out. He's into guns big time."

  Willy pocketed his knife and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Lenny. You're a stand-up guy."

  Manotti shook his head, but he also took Willy's hand in grudging respect. "And you're an asshole. Close the door on the way out."

  Chapter 20

  Sammie Martens intoned, "Nancy Hidalgo," and gave an address.

  Jim Berhle, Ward Ogden's young partner, typed the name into the computer and waited a few moments for it to respond. "A shoplifting rap six years ago. Otherwise clean," he read back to her.

  "Anthony Mallon," Sammie said next, and followed it with another address. She was reading from a list in her hand.

  Berhle repeated his part of the exercise.

  "Wonder if that's one of the boyfriends," Joe Gunther said, standing by the coffee machine they'd smuggled into the room. The three of them were upstairs in the precinct house, far from the Whip's prying eyes, or anyone else from the detective squad. Ogden was where he was supposed to be, satisfying the powers by catching up on some of his other cases. He'd been taken "off the chart" for any new cases, but Mary Kunkle hadn't been declared worthy of undivided attention.

  "Clean as a whistle," Berhle reported.

  "Last one," Sammie announced. "Michael Annunzio."

  Jim Berhle waited for the address and typed in the name. After the usual pause, he said, "Little more interesting: Mr. Annunzio's been busted for possession twice, disorderly twice, and once for domestic assault. He might stand a friendly chat."

  They'd been closeted for hours, Sammie and Gunther scrounging through all the Metro cards, bills, sales receipts, and credit card slips, building what they could of a timeline and linking it to a geographical chart on one hand-where Mary had been each time she'd generated one of these mundane documents-and to a list of names and addresses of everyone she'd phoned over the past six months on the other.

  Berhle shoved his chair away from the computer, pushed his glasses up high on his forehead, and rubbed his eyes vigorously. "Man, I can't imagine doing this all day, every day." He stood up and paced the floor briefly, stretching his legs, before coming to a stop behind where Sammie was sitting so he could look over her shoulder at the complicated, hand-scribbled chart.

  "So, we have anything after all that?" he asked.

  Joe Gunther by now understood why Ogden had chosen this particular partner for this case. Like the dinosaur, Berhle was calm, thoughtful, smart, and not driven by ego. He'd also proved to be as happy as his senior colleague to work with a couple of complete outsiders, at least when it came to pure grunt work.

  Sammie tried to decipher her own handwriting, not to mention the arrows and scratch-outs that also covered her notes. "One thing's for sure," she told him. "Mary had a whole different lifestyle than we thought. I'd pictured some walking wounded dragging herself toward employment and education through guts and determination. She's a whole lot more complicated than that."


  She tapped one of the sheets with her pencil eraser. "Like with these phone contacts. Besides the usual coworkers and friends is an inordinate bunch of social misfits. Michael Annunzio is the sixth man with a violent criminal record, all of which include domestic assault raps. That's either a weird coincidence or she wasn't able to break the cycle. Did you cross-check to see if any of their victims was Mary?"

  "I tried," Berhle admitted. "But I only scratched the surface, and some of that information isn't in our data bank, either. We're getting better, but the idea of one computer terminal doing everything is still a ways off. Anyhow, she didn't surface in anything I checked, to answer your question. What else did you find out?"

  Sammie turned to the Metro card map. "First time we saw this, the big thing that jumped out was how many times she went to Harlem, which we're now figuring was to sign up for those classes. This map shows only three Brooklyn locations, in three different neighborhoods. No big deal on the face of it. Except"-and here she pulled together several more scraps of paper-"for when you start superimposing a bunch of these."

  She placed her finger on the map. "Here, for instance. We've got a subway stop one day, a thrown-out receipt for a fast-food lunch on another, and the address of one of the men she called, all happening within the same three-block area." She moved to another section. "Same thing for here. No subway stop, but another receipt, a credit card charge for some store item, and again, a nearby phone number of some creep. In fact, each of the three subway stops corresponds to one of these kinds of men. She was definitely up to something. I can feel it in my gut."

  "It also brings back what Ogden said," Gunther added. "That she never surfaced where most junkies do, on the welfare rolls, or unemployment, or parole and probation. Like she had a secret nest egg."

  Jim Berhle had finally worked out the kinks enough to sit down again. "I also wondered about that credit card. I know she didn't use it much, and the limit's low, but I was surprised she had one at all. Most junkies aren't that organized."

  "What was the name of her primary girlfriend?" Gunther asked.