After dinner, he would go down to his office, keeping his cell phone with him in case Brubaker or Myers called, and contemplate what he had to do tomorrow and in the days to come.
It was a strange dinner for Kurtz—a good dinner, lots of spaghetti and roast beef and gravy and real bread and a good salad and coffee—but strange. It had been a while since his last home-cooked dinner eaten with other people. How long? Twelve years. Twelve years and a month. A dinner with Sam at her place, also spaghetti that night, with the baby, the toddler, in a tall chair—not a high chair, it didn't have a tray—what had Sam called it? A youth chair. With little Rachel in the youth chair at the table, chattering away, reaching over to tug at Kurtz's napkin, the child babbling even as Sam told him about this interesting case she was pursuing—a teenage runaway missing, drugs involved.
Kurtz stopped eating. Only Arlene noticed and she looked away after a second.
Pruno had come out of the bathroom showered, shaven, skin pink and scalded-looking, his fingernails still yellowed and cracked but no longer grimy, his thinning gray hair—which Kurtz had never seen except as a sort of nimbus floating around the old wino's head—slicked back. He was wearing a suit that might have been two decades out of style and no longer fit. Pruno's frail form was lost in it, but it also looked clean. How? wondered Kurtz. How could this old heroin addict keep a suit clean when he lived in a packing crate and in cubbies under the Thruway?
Pruno—or "Dr. Frederick," as Frears kept addressing him—looked older and frailer and more fragile without his protective crusts of grime and rags. But the old man sat very upright as he ate and drank and nodded his head to accept more food and addressed John Wellington Frears in measured tones. Frears had been his student at Princeton. One old man dying of cancer and his ancient teacher sitting there in his double-breasted, pinstripe suit—making conversation about Mozart as a prodigy and about the Palestinian situation and about global warming.
Kurtz shook his head. He'd not had any wine because he was so damned tired already and because he might have to keep his head clear for several hours more on this endless day, but enough was enough. This scene was not just unreal, it was surreal. He needed a drink.
Arlene followed him out to the kitchen.
"Doesn't your sister-in-law keep any booze in the house?" asked Kurtz.
"That top cupboard. Johnnie Walker Red."
"That'll do," said Kurtz. He poured himself three fingers' worth.
"What's the matter, Joe?"
"Nothing's the matter. Other than this serial-killer police captain after all of us, I mean. Everything's great."
"You're thinking about Rachel."
Kurtz shook his head and took a drink. The two old men in the dining room laughed at something.
"What are you going to do about that, Joe?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. You can't let her go back to Donald Rafferty."
Kurtz shrugged. He remembered tearing up the photograph of Frears's dead daughter—Crystal. He remembered leaving the torn bits of the photograph on the scarred table at Blues Franklin.
Arlene lit a cigarette and pulled down a small bowl for an ashtray. "Gail won't let me smoke in her house. She'll be furious when she gets home tomorrow."
Kurtz studied the amber liquid in his glass.
"What if the police don't arrest Rafferty, Joe?"
He shrugged again.
"Or if they do?" said Arlene. "Either way, Rachel is going to be at risk. A foster home? Samantha had no other family. Just her ex-husband. Unless he has family who can take care of her."
Kurtz poured another finger of scotch. Rafferty's only living family was an alcoholic bitch of a mother who lived in Las Vegas and a younger brother who was doing time in an Indiana state prison for armed robbery. He'd listened to the phone conversations.
"But if she goes into some sort of temporary foster home…" began Arlene.
"Look," said Kurtz, slamming the empty glass down on the counter, "what the hell do you want me to do about it?"
Arlene blinked. Joe Kurtz had never yelled at her in all their years of working together. She exhaled smoke and batted ashes into the dainty little ceramic bowl. "DNA," she said.
"What?"
"DNA testing would show paternity, Joe. You could—"
"Are you fucking nuts? An ex-con who served time for manslaughter? A former P.I. who will never get his license back? Somebody with at least three death sentences out on him?" Kurtz laughed. "Yeah, I don't see why the courts wouldn't place the kid with someone like that. Besides, I don't know for sure that I'm the—"
"Don't," said Arlene, her finger raised and pointed. "Don't say that. Don't even pretend to me that you think it."
Kurtz went out into the tiny living room, retrieved his peacoat and the S&W .40 from where he'd left them and went down the stairs and out of the house. It was dark out and it had begun to snow again.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
« ^ »
"I was just about to call and report a stolen Porsche," said Angelina Farino Ferrara.
"That little electronic-card thing is handy," said Kurtz. "It lets you into both the parking garage and the elevator. Useful."
"I hope you put the Boxster back in the same slot. And there had better not be any scratches."
Kurtz ignored her and walked over to the center of the penthouse's living room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window on the east side, the lights of downtown Buffalo glowed through the falling snow. To the west was the darkness of the river and lake, with only a few distant ship lights blinking against blackness.
"We have to get rid of Leo," said Angelina.
"I know. Any problems with Marco?"
"Not a peep. He's handcuffed in the bathroom. Seems to be mildly amused by all this. Marco may be smarter than I thought."
"Maybe so. You have anyone on the floor below us?"
"Five people work there—no muscle, just bookkeeper types—but they went home at six. Marco and Leo were the only ones using the living quarters there."
"I thought Little Skag brought in new muscle from the east."
"He did. Eight other new guys besides Marco and Leo. But they're all out doing what they do—running what's left of Stevie's crews, handling the whores and gambling. Day-to-day stuff. They don't come by here that much."
"Who does?"
"Albert Bell is the lawyer who acts as liaison between Little Stevie and me. I usually see Mr. Bell on Saturdays."
"But Marco and Leo check in with Little Skag by phone every Wednesday?"
"Right. Stevie calls his lawyer. The call is forwarded. I don't know where the Boys take the call."
"Marco will tell us," said Kurtz. He felt very tired. "You ready to transport the frozen goods?"
"I'll go down and back the Town Car right up to the elevator."
"I'll need a big garment bag, sheet, something."
"Shower curtain," said Angelina. "Little blue fish on it. I took care of it."
Angelina drove. They took the Buffalo Skyway south along the lake. It was snowing very hard now, visibility was limited to the two cones of headlights filled with flurries, and the elevated highway was treacherous with black ice. Only the Lincoln Town Car's massive weight kept them moving as the rear-wheel drive slipped and then gripped for pavement. Kurtz had the clear image of them getting stuck and a friendly patrolman stopping to help them out, a need to look in the trunk for the chains or somesuch…
"We going far?" he asked.
"Not far. Near Hamburg."
"What's near Hamburg?"
"My father and older brother used to keep an ice-fishing shack just offshore in February. Sometimes they'd drag Little Stevie along, whining and pouting. I went a few times. If there's anything more stupid than sitting in a freezing shack staring at a hole in the ice, I don't what it might be. But some of the old capos still set up the shack even though there are no Farinos around to use it."
"I didn't
know that people ice-fished on Lake Erie. Is the ice thick enough to walk on?"
"We're going to drive this car out onto it."
"But aren't there big ships still moving out there?"
"Yeah."
That was all Kurtz wanted to know about that subject. He concentrated on staying awake while the big car crept along through blowing snow. Once off the Skyway and moving along Highway 5 through little shoreline communities like Locksley Park and Mount Vernon, the black ice was less frequent but the snow was worse.
"Are you still with me on this, Kurtz?"
The woman's voice made him blink awake. "With you on what?"
"You know. Gonzaga."
"I don't know."
Angelina drove in silence for a few minutes.
"Why don't you tell me what your real plan is," Kurtz said. "What your objectives are, long term goals. So far you've just tried to use me like some damned Hamas suicide bomber."
"And you used me," she said. "You were ready to get me killed today just so you could get to Emilio."
Kurtz shrugged at that. He waited.
"If Little Skag gets out of Attica this spring, it's too late," Angelina said at last. "I'm screwed. The Farino Family is finished. Stevie thinks he can ride this tiger, but Emilio will gobble him up in six weeks. Less."
"So? You can always go back to Italy or something. Can't you?"
"No," said Angelina, throwing the word like a javelin. "Fuck that. The Gonzagas have been planning this… this extermination… of the Farinos for a long, long time. It was Emilio's father who had my father ambushed and crippled sixteen years ago. Emilio raped me seven years ago as much out of Gonzaga contempt as anything else. There's no way on earth that I'm going to let them destroy the family without a fight." She slowed, hunted for a street sign in the blizzard, and turned right toward the lake.
"So say I'd killed Gonzaga for you," said Kurtz. "Either you or one of the New York families would have had me killed, but then where are you? Little Skag is still running things from Attica."
"But he can't get out without the judges and parole-board people on the Gonzaga payroll," said Angelina. "It buys me time to try to consolidate things. If the rebuilt Farino Family is earning money for them, the New York bosses won't care who's actually running the action here in Buffalo."
"But Little Skag still has the leverage and control of the money," said Kurtz. "In a vacuum, he'll just find a way to buy the Gonzaga judges and parole-board people."
"Yes." The asphalt road ended at a snowy boat ramp dropping down onto the lake. Two rows of red flares were dimly visible stretching across the snowy ice, marking a makeshift road onto Lake Erie. A few truck and snowmobile tracks were gradually being erased by the wind. "The goddamned Gonzagas," muttered Angelina as she slowly descended the boat ramp. She was talking without thinking about it, just to relieve the tension of the driving. "While Papa and my family were consolidating gambling and prostitution and paying off just a few tame judges, the Gonzagas spent their money to buy top officials. Hell, most of the top cops in the Buffalo P.D. are on their pad."
"Stop!" said Kurtz.
The big Lincoln slewed to a stop with only its front wheels on the ice. "What?" snapped Angelina. "Goddammit, Kurtz. I told you, the ice is thick enough now to hold ten, Town Cars. Quit being so fucking nervous."
"No," said Kurtz. The windshield wipers pounded wildly, trying to knock away the blowing snow. "Say that again… about the cops."
"Say what? The Gonzagas have been paying the top cops for years. It's how Emilio's family gets away with moving the huge volume of drugs it does."
"Do you have a list of those cops?"
"Sure. So what?"
Kurtz was too busy thinking to answer.
The Farino ice-fishing shack was only a few hundred yards out on the ice, but in the dark and the snow and the howling wind, it seemed like miles from shore. A few other shacks were visible in the headlights, but there were no vehicles. Even idiots who thought ice fishing was a sport weren't out tonight.
Kurtz and Angelina Farino Ferrara wrestled the stiffened bundle out of the trunk and carried it into the shack. There was a large hole centered where men could sit on plywood seats on either side and watch their lines—the whole building reminded Kurtz of an oversized outhouse—but a film of new ice had grown over the hole.
Angelina took a long-handled shovel from the corner and bashed away the scrim of ice. The wind literally howled, and icy pellets pounded the north wall of the shack.
Angelina had added some chains to the package so there was no need to hunt for additional weights. They lowered Leo through the hole, his shoulders barely squeezing through and bunching up the plastic shower curtain, and watched the last bubbles rise in the middle of the black circle.
"Let's get out of here," said Kurtz.
Back on Highway 5, Angelina said, "It's a good thing you chose Leo."
"Why?"
"Marco wouldn't have fit through that hole. We would've had to chop a new one."
Kurtz let that go.
Angelina glanced at him in the light of the instrument console. There was almost no traffic going through Lackawanna and back into town. "Did it occur to you that Leo might have had a family, Kurtz? A loving wife? Couple of kids?"
"No. Did he?"
"Of course not. As far as I could find out, he left New Jersey because he'd beaten his stripper girlfriend to death. He'd killed his brother the year before over some gambling debt. But my point was, he might've had a family. You didn't know."
Kurtz wasn't listening. He was trying to fight away fatigue long enough to work through this thing.
"Okay," Angelina said. "Tell me. What was this about the cops?"
"I don't know."
She waited. As they drove into the Marina Towers basement garage, Kurtz said, "I may have a way. For us to get to Gonzaga and survive. Maybe even put you in the position you want to be in and take Little Skag out of the equation."
"Kill Stevie?" She did not sound shocked at the idea.
"Not necessarily. Just get rid of his leverage."
"Tell me."
Kurtz shook his head. He looked around the garage and realized that his Volvo was still parked at the Buffalo Athletic Club. That cute little Boxster would never get through this snow. And where am I going? Hansen probably had his room at the Royal Delaware Arms and the office staked out. Kurtz thought of how crowded Gail's tiny apartment was tonight—violinist on the sofa, wino on the floor, whatever—and it made him more tired than ever.
"You have to drive me back to the Athletic Club," he said dully. Maybe he could sleep in the car there.
"Fuck that," Angelina said in conversational tones. "You're staying in the penthouse tonight."
Kurtz looked at her.
"Relax. I'm not after your body, Kurtz. And you look too wasted to make a pass. I just need to hear about this plan. You're not leaving until you tell me."
"I need a B-and-E expert tomorrow," said Kurtz. "Your family has to know someone really good at defeating security systems. Maybe cracking safes as well."
Angelina laughed.
"What's so funny?" said Kurtz.
"I'll tell you upstairs. You can sleep on the sectional in the living room. We'll build a fire, you can pour us a couple of brandies, and I'll tell you what's so funny. It'll be your bedtime story."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
« ^ »
James B. Hansen awoke on Wednesday morning refreshed, renewed, and determined to go on the offensive. He made love to his very surprised wife—only Hansen knew that it would almost certainly be for the last time, since he planned to move on before the approaching weekend was past—and even while he made her moan, he was thinking that he had been passive in this Frears/Kurtz thing far too long, that it was time for him to reassert his dominance. James B. Hansen was a Master chess player, but he much preferred offense to defense. He had been reacting to events rather than being proactive. It was time for h
im to take charge. People were going to die today.
His wife moaned her weak little orgasm, Hansen dutifully had his—offering a prayer to his Lord and Savior as he did so—and then it was time to shower, strap on his Glock-9, and get to work.
Hansen went to the office long enough to have "Captain Millworth" clear his schedule except for a mandatory meeting with Boy Scout Troop 23 at 11:30 and a lunch with the Chief and the Mayor an hour after that. He called the two detectives: Myers was on the stakeout at Kurtz's secretary's house in Cheektowaga after a few hours' sleep; Brubaker had checked the Royal Delaware Arms and Kurtz's office downtown—no joy there. Hansen told Brubaker to join Myers in Cheektowaga, he would meet them there.
He went down to the precinct basement to requisition tactical gear.
"Wow, Captain," said the sergeant behind the cage wire, "you starting a war?"
"Just running a tactical exercise for a few of my boys," said Hansen. "Can't let the detectives get fat and lazy while ESU and SWAT are having all the fun, can we?"
"No, sir," said the sergeant.
"I'm going to back my Cadillac sport ute around," said Hansen. "Would you pack all this stuff in two ballistic-cloth bags and get it up to the rear door?"
"Yes, sir," said the sergeant in an unhappy tone. It wasn't his job to hump gear bags up the back stairs. But Captain Robert Gaines Millworth had a reputation as a humorless, unforgiving officer.
Hansen drove out through heavy snow to Cheektowaga, thinking about how easy this apprehension would be if he could just call a dozen of his detectives into the ready room and send them searching for Frears and Kurtz: checking every hotel and motel in the Buffalo area, running credit-card searches, going door to door. He had to smile at this. After years of being the ultimate loner, James B. Hansen was being contaminated by the group-effort persona of Captain Millworth. Well. I'll just have to get by with Brubaker and Myers. It was too bad that he had to rely on a venial, corrupt cop and a fat slacker, but he'd use them and then discard them within the next couple of days.