He shuddered. He felt transparent. He believed the whole world could see him for what he truly was, that the world could see right through his chest to the small knotted fist of his dark heart.
He felt ashamed. No, he didn’t feel ashamed. He just felt small. Infinitesimally small against the weight of Isabella’s conviction, her seeming belief in his ability to make everything right. If she only knew . . .
He tried to stop thinking about her. He didn’t want this now. He didn’t want anything but a little while to gather himself, to focus on what had to be done, to get his head clear and his thoughts straight.
Madigan closed his eyes. He had to get out. If he stayed with her she would get to him, get underneath him, around him, beside him, and he would not be able to withhold himself from speaking.
He would have to tell her the truth, and deal with the consequences.
Was absolution possible? Was there even such a thing? Would he ever be free of the ghosts?
No, he thought, I will never be free of the ghosts. Things have gone too far.
It was unbearable.
Madigan left the bar, and returned to his car.
He did not think to call Don Jackson again. He did not think to double-check that Don had found the house with the red door, that Bernie’s brother was getting straightened up.
His mind was elsewhere.
Madigan saw Bryant’s car before he came to a stop near the motel. He did not see Bryant clearly, but the car—that generic, dark gray sedan—was unmistakable. There were two dozen of them in the precinct car park.
Bryant got out as Madigan approached. Madigan waved him back inside, walked around to the passenger side and got in.
Bryant had the bag beneath his seat, tugged it out, opened the top a couple of inches and showed Madigan the money within.
“All of it?” Madigan said.
Bryant nodded.
“You need one eighty . . . That’s what he’ll take; no less.”
Bryant whistled through his teeth.
“Hey, it don’t fucking matter, Sarge,” Madigan said. “He could take the whole two hundred. We can’t do anything with it anyway.”
“Yes, I know,” Bryant replied. “I just never imagined we’d be in a situation like this. A hundred and eighty grand to get IA off our cases.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The tension was suffocating.
“So the guy’s in there?” Bryant asked.
Madigan glanced at the clock in the dash. It was close to quarter to seven.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes,” he said. “Maybe sooner.”
Bryant closed up the bag of money and tucked it back under the seat.
Madigan could tell that Bryant wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. Everything that needed to be said had already been communicated in looks, in gestures, in unspoken words. Madigan knew that Bryant would want to ask questions, to know what Madigan thought, what Madigan believed was really going on.
It did not matter. They were here for one reason and one reason only, and no further discussion was required.
Bryant maintained his silence.
Madigan could hear nothing but his own heart.
Bernie didn’t look back at the sedan. He had no reason to. He paid the cabdriver, crossed the street, went into the motel.
“We’re up,” Madigan said, and he reached for the door lever.
Bryant reached out and grabbed Madigan’s forearm. “This guy’s good, right?”
Madigan frowned. “Good? He’s a fucking thief, Sarge. He’s a thief and a liar and a scumbag. But of all the thieves and liars and scumbags I know, he’s slightly better than most. It don’t matter what he’s like. He’s got something we need. We’ve got something he wants. And that’s the end of the matter. We see him once and once only, and it’s all over. Let’s just get this thing done. Okay?”
Bryant nodded. He reached for the bag, exited the car, and the pair of them crossed to the motel.
In the motel room, Bernie was pacing. He’d done what was needed, had returned as scheduled. He had the phone with the Walsh conversation on it. But he was nervous. He was worried about his brother, wanted to know that Madigan had handled it, that Peter was going to be fine. Madigan had given his word that he’d take care of it. Bernie had given his word that he would not call Peter or Glenn Wilson. To think of his brother in such a situation made him sick, but he had to keep it together. Screw this up and his debt to Sandià would not be paid. He had to make this happen.
There was a knock at the door. He nearly dropped his cigarette. His hands were shaking. He had to act nervous, had to act flustered, but only so much.
He walked to the door.
“Yes?”
“Bernie, it’s me, Vincent.”
“You got the guy?”
“I got him.”
“You got what I need?”
“Bernie, for Christ’s sake, open the damned door. Will you?”
Bernie hesitated, and then he slid back the chain, unlocked the door, opened it a half dozen inches.
“Bernie, let us in. It’s me and the guy. Okay? That’s all. No one else. We didn’t bring SWAT.”
Bernie opened the door. “That’s very funny, Vincent. Make me feel worried, why don’t you?”
Vincent was inside. Bryant came in after him. He scanned the room, looked Bernie up and down, took in the whole space.
“You the guy who’s after the phone?” Bernie asked.
“No,” Madigan interjected. “This is the guy from Subway. He brought you a meatball sandwich ’cause he figured you were hungry.”
“You’re a fucking asshole, Vincent Madigan,” Bernie said.
“No, I’m the guy who’s here to save your life.”
Bernie shook his head. He walked to the window, started back, nervously smoking the cigarette. “There’s been a problem,” he said.
Madigan looked at Bryant. Bryant opened his mouth to speak. Madigan shook his head.
“Problem?” Madigan said.
“Well, not so much a problem . . . But I’ve been thinking, Vincent, thinking a lot.”
“And how many times have I warned you about that, Bernie?”
Bernie sneered. “You think you’re real funny—”
Bryant stepped up to the plate. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Madigan looked at Bryant’s expression. He was agitated. He wanted to know what the problem was. Something had been agreed, and now the something was coming apart.
“Hey, I don’t have to deal with this,” Bernie said, looking at Bryant.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Madigan said, his tone placatory. “I’m dealing with this. Okay? I’m dealing with this. So what’s the problem?”
“I can’t take that money tonight. I can’t take it until tomorrow,” Bernie said.
He sensed Bryant’s reaction behind him.
“Right. I got to pay Sandià, but I can’t pay him tonight.”
Bryant stepped forward. “This money is going to Sandià? What the hell—”
Madigan turned. “It doesn’t matter where the money’s going, Sarge. That’s not important here. Bernie’s gotten himself into some trouble with Sandià. Bernie has something we need. We pay Bernie. He pays Sandià. And everyone’s happy, okay?”
Bryant said nothing.
“So why can’t you pay Sandià tonight?” Madigan asked Bernie.
“Because he ain’t here. Okay? He’s out of town. I got word to his people, and they said to bring it tomorrow morning. Sandià wants to take delivery himself for whatever fucking reason . . .”
“That’s the problem?” Bryant asked.
“Sarge, leave it,” Madigan said. “I’ll handle it.”
Madigan looked at Bernie. His expression was intense, focused.
“Tomorrow,” Bernie said. “It has to go tomorrow.”
“But I need that fucking phone tonight,” Bryant said. “I’m not going through this again.”
“Giv
e us the phone now, Bernie, and you keep the money—”
Bernie laughed nervously. “You think that’s such a good idea? Hell, man, you know me better than anyone. You’re gonna leave me here on my own with a hundred and eighty grand?”
“I’ll keep the cash safe,” Bryant said. “I’ll take care of it, and I’ll get it back to you in the morning. Whatever the hell happens, I need that phone right now.”
Madigan didn’t turn too quickly. Bryant had taken the bait, but so much sooner than he’d expected.
Madigan looked at Bernie. Bernie seemed hesitant.
“Vincent?” Bernie asked.
“Safer than with anyone else,” Madigan said. “If he says he’ll have it ready for you in the morning, then he’ll have it ready for you in the morning.”
“I give you the phone now, and I got nothing,” Bernie said.
“You’re gonna have to trust us, Bernie. Or you keep the money here tonight.”
Bernie was slow to respond, but he did. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, but I need that money back here by eight tomorrow morning.”
“It’ll be here,” Bryant said. “Now, where’s the phone?”
Bernie walked back into the bathroom. He returned with a plastic bag, in it the cellphone. Within a moment, Bryant was listening to the conversation with Walsh.
“And there are no copies of this?” Bryant asked Madigan.
Madigan nodded. “Bernie and I have an understanding. Don’t we, Bernie? Bernie can lie to whoever the hell he likes, but he never lies to me. Right, Bernie?”
“Hey, man, I want out of this. Once that debt is paid, I am gone. Believe me. I am so gone, you won’t even remember my name in a week’s time. I don’t want anything that connects me to Sandià or you or anyone else here for the rest of my freakin’ life.” He looked at Bryant. “But I am fucking counting on you to be back here at eight in the morning with that money.”
“I will be here,” Bryant said. “You rest easy. I’ll be here.”
Bernie still looked terrified. His face was varnished with sweat.
“You stay low now,” Madigan told Bernie. “Stay here tonight. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t speak to anyone. And when you’ve paid Sandià, I figure you’d best get as far away as you can.”
“I got it all straightened out,” Bernie said. “I’m outta here, off to—”
Madigan cut him short. “I don’t need to know, Bernie.”
Bernie hesitated. “Yeah,” he said. “For sure.”
“We’re gone,” Madigan said.
Bryant turned toward the door.
“And that money has to be back here . . .” Bernie repeated.
Bryant said nothing. He looked at Madigan. In his expression it was obvious, What is this? I said I’d do it. Tell the guy to keep talking and I might just keep the damned money. Jesus, what the hell is this?
“It’ll be here,” Madigan said. “Seriously.”
Bernie Tomczak and Vincent Madigan shook hands. Bryant was already halfway out the door with the duffel.
Bernie watched them go. Then he sat down and tried to start breathing again.
59
RIDE
By the time Madigan drove away from the motel, it was dark. Bryant had said little as they left, clutching the duffel in one hand, the phone in the other, a phone that would never get back to Walsh if Madigan’s next call went as planned.
He watched Bryant’s taillights vanish. Bryant was headed home. He would stay there until early the following morning, and then return the money to Bernie.
Madigan waited until those taillights had vanished completely, and then he took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He stood silently for some time, looking down in the same direction, nothing ahead of him but the parallel lines of streetlights, the lights of storefronts across the sidewalk, the sound of distant music playing in a bar someplace out of sight.
There were no cars, no people, nothing.
He dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the sole of his shoe.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, mouthed a few silent words, and then took his cellphone from his pocket.
He dialed the number.
Madigan had found that bar where the music was playing, he had ordered nothing but a Coke, and he’d waited patiently. The call he was expecting came just after nine. As soon as it came, he left the bar immediately.
Beneath his shirt Madigan was sweating profusely. He drove slowly, all the while trying not to think, trying to empty his mind of everything. When he reached for his jacket, he realized his hands were shaking. Just one drink. One Valium. One something.
He exited the car and started walking. He was expected, and he went on up without question or comment.
He was alone in the elevator. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, again forcing himself to think of nothing.
The door opened.
One of Sandià’s people was there, nodded silently, took his gun, walked with him to the door, knocked once, turned, and walked back to the elevator.
“Come!” a voice called.
Madigan opened the door.
He smelled it as soon as he entered. Ammonia. Something else. Fear?
Sandià was there. He had no jacket, had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and there was blood on the front of it. Just a tiny spatter, but it was there: unmistakable.
“Vincent . . . so good of you to come . . .” Sandià said. “I have some questions, and maybe you have some answers. You want a drink? The usual?”
“Sure,” Madigan said.
“Let us talk about Alvin Bryant.”
Madigan took the glass from Sandià.
“He says he knows you very well.”
“Of course he knows me. We work together. We’re in the same precinct. You already know this . . .”
“But how well do you know him?”
Madigan frowned. “What the hell is this, Dario? I called you. I told you where the money was. I told you that Bryant was your fourth man—”
“And he is now in the bathroom,” Sandià said.
Madigan frowned. “Here?”
“No, Vincent, in the bathroom at Union fucking Station. Of course here.”
“What the hell is he doing here? I figured he’d be dead already . . .”
“He is answering some questions for me.”
“Okay, so he’s answering some questions. I still get the idea I’m missing something here, Dario.”
“Bryant told me that you would know exactly what I was talking about . . .”
Madigan laughed uncomfortably. “No, seriously, whatever the hell is going on here, I need a bit more information. Bryant said I would know what?”
Sandià sat down behind his desk. “Bryant said that he had my money because he was dealing with you and Bernie Tomczak. You remember Bernie Tomczak?”
“Sure I remember him.”
“I know him as a gambler who owes me a great deal of money, but how do you know him?”
“Same as you. He’s just a smalltime crook, a thief, a scam artist. He’s little fish.”
“Is he also a CI, Vincent?”
Madigan shrugged. “Maybe.”
“For Bryant? He’s a CI for Bryant?”
“He could be, yes. That’s the thing about CIs. Often you don’t even know who other officers keep as CIs.”
“So Bernie Tomczak could be Bryant’s CI, and you might not know about it?”
“Sure.”
“So Bryant says he is in possession of two hundred grand of my money because he is paying a debt for Bernie Tomczak.”
“And why the hell would he be doing that?”
“The details are unimportant, Vincent. I need to know if there is any truth in this. I need to know if you are aware of this arrangement.”
“How the fuck would I know anything about a deal Bryant had made with his CI?”
Sandià just looked at Madigan. Madigan held his gaze.
“I want to know if you know where Bryant got
this money from.”
“He got it from your nephew, Dario. Bryant is your fourth man. He was the one at the house. He was the one who whacked those three guys in the storage unit. How the hell else would he have your money?”
“And how did you find out he was the fourth man, Vincent?”
“From a guy called Richard Moran, a good friend of Larry Fulton’s, and Fulton was one of the guys who did the job with Bryant. Fulton was also one of the three people that Bryant killed in the storage unit.”
“Well, Bryant says he had nothing to do with the robbery, and that he didn’t kill those three men. He says that you can help him explain everything.”
“Me?”
“Sure, you.”
“Well, I think maybe he’s spinning you a serious line of bullshit, Dario. Seems to me he’s saying whatever he can think of to get out of the hole he’s dug for himself.” Madigan hesitated, and then he smiled. “Hey, hold up a moment here. You’re not considering the possibility that I am actually involved in some sort of deal with Al Bryant, are you?”
“I don’t know, Vincent . . . Am I?”
“So you’re gonna listen to him over me? You’re gonna take his word over mine?”
Sandià sighed. “There are too many things that don’t make sense, Vincent, and too many questions that don’t have answers.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t have any more answers for you.” Madigan didn’t know whether he was as convincing as Bernie had been with Bryant back at the motel, but he was trying. Oh Lord, he was trying.
“Like I said, Bryant is telling me that he is not the fourth man, Vincent.”
“Well, of course he’s gonna say that. Jesus, what else is he going to say? Where the hell is he? Bring him out here. Bring him out and let’s find out what the hell is going on.”
“He’s in the bathroom.”
Madigan got up from his chair. “Well, I’ll go get him out of the fucking bathroom.”