And Basile was an enemy. Within the Narcotics Division, he'd been a constant nuisance, insisting that a postmortem be conducted on every operation, successful or not. He was a crusader, demanding accountability for mistakes, seeking out the whys and wherefores of every screw up. He was a nagging conscience that kept the department reasonably honest, although not entirely so.
Worse, he appeared to be incorruptible. Pinkie had commissioned purveyors of every conceivable vice to try to find a weak spot in Basile's moral armor. None had been successful not the bookies not the drug dealers, not the women. All had tried to compromise him, all had failed.
So for years Basile had plagued Pinkie Duvall's operation. He was a self-appointed general in the war against drugs and he had the ability to rally the troops. When Kev Stuart was killed, the conflict had turned personal. Basile was still bitter over that and, despite the Bardo verdict, was not going to let the matter drop. He wasn't going to rest until he had avenged Stuart's death. Quitting the N.O.P.D had been a smoke screen.
Which brought Pinkie to the second reason he had hoped Basile would sign on with him. He could keep a closer watch on him if he were an employee. As long as Basile was with the police department, his activities were easily monitored. Now he had vanished, and no one seemed to know his whereabouts or his intentions. Pinkie didn't like it.
A man didn't ascend to the powerful position Pinkie held without cultivating a legion of enemies along the way. He couldn't begin to count the threats, real and implied, that he'd received over the years.
He paid dearly for protection against people with grudges. He felt secure. Even so, he was smart enough to know that for all the precautions he took, he couldn't be one hundred percent protected, twenty-four hours a day. No one, not even a head of state, was invulnerable.
Burke Basile was out there, a loose cannon with a short fuse, harboring a lot of hatred for Pinkie Duvall. He'd be a fool not to be a little edgy about that.
The system in which Basile had placed his trust had failed him, so he'd thumbed his nose at it and walked away. His actions were no longer governed by the rules and regulations of law enforcement, which made him doubly dangerous.
Of course, Basile couldn't harm him without tarnishing himself but that was small comfort. Just how crazy was the man? How far was he willing to go to get his revenge? What did he have to lose? Not a career.
Not a wife and family. Nothing in the way of materia possessions. Not even his integrity or good reputation, which the media had trampled.
That's what disturbed Pinkie most. Experience had taught him that the less a person had to lose, the more of a threat he posed.
"I want him found," he told Bardo emphatically.
"What do I do when I find him?"
Pinkie gave him a pointed look.
Grinning, Bardo nodded."It'll be a pleasure."
Pinkie's secretary knocked. He beckoned her into his private office.
"Pardon the interruption, Mr. Duvall, but you asked for this information as soon as I obtained it."
Having given Bardo his assignment, Pinkie dismissed him and took from his secretary the typed memo regarding Jenny's House. When he had arrived home last evening, Remy was behaving more like her old self.
She was excited about the charity, spearheaded by this Father Gregory, who had invited her to visit the facility. Pinkie had promised to think about it. It seemed harmless, especially if it lifted her out of the doldrums she'd been in.
He had questioned Errol at length about the priest's visit and had been surprised to learn that there had actually been two who attended the meeting. One, he was told, was older and more businesslike. The younger one was handsome, but probably gay, according to Errol. It was he, Father Gregory, who'd done most of the talking. Errol said that he had remained in the room for the duration of their visit, and that the two churchmen had discussed nothing except a refuge for kids.
Fingering the business card the priest had given Remy, Pinkie asked his secretary if she had called the number printed on it."Yes, sir.
The phone was answered by a woman."
"How'd she answer?"
"Jenny's House."
"So it's legit?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Duvall. I asked to speak with Father Gregory. She told me that neither he nor Father Kevin was in, but she would be pleased to give them a message."
The secretary then laughed."She thought I was calling to make a donation She gave me much more information about the facility than I asked for. I didn't get it all down verbatim, but as you can see by the memo, I took extensive notes."
Very nicely done, Dixie." Burke took the telephone receiver from the girl and hung it up. The pay phone was in the second-story hallway of a flophouse that stank of poor plumbing.
"It was worth forty bucks."
Although he had paid her beforehand, Dixie followed him into the room he was renting by the day under an assumed name. She climbed onto the bed, digging the stiletto heels of her white patent boots into the stained bedspread. When she smiled, he could see her chaw of apple green gum stuck between her molars."You really think I sounded like a nun type?"
"Could've fooled me. Drink?"
"You bet."
Burke fished a canned soft drink from the Styrofoam ice chest the room didn't come with a refrigerator and passed it to her.
"When you said drink, I thought you meant " "Nope. You're below legal drinking age."
Finding that very funny, she popped the top on the drink and sipped the fizz that spewed out."Did you mean what you said?" "About what?"
"I sounded like a nun? Maybe I missed my calling."
"Maybe."
"But, when you think about it, I'm sorta like a nun."
Burke raised his eyebrows skeptically.
She propped herself up on her elbows, a position that thrust her breasts almost out of the black-lace demi-bra beneath her open denim jacket."I'm serious."
"Nuns don't wear red vinyl miniskirts and heavy perfume, Dixie."
Her gardenia scent was her trademark. When Vice went looking for her, they sniffed her out, literally. In this small room, where no doubt a thousand sordid transactions had taken place, the sweet fragrance was as thick as a gumbo and slightly nauseating.
"Nuns serve their fellowman. Isn't that what I do?"
"I think the distinction lies in the manner in which you serve."
"Well, sure, if you're going to get technical ..." She slurped her drink."You Catholic, Basile?"
"Raised that way."
"Hard to imagine you praying and stuff."
"It's been a long time," he murmured.
It had been a sure bet that Pinkie would check out Jenny's House, especially if his wife had asked permission to visit it. Working under that hypothesis, Burke had paid a starving artist twenty dollars to sketch a phony logo for the bogus children's refuge. He then went to a self-service print shop and made up a dozen business cards with the logo and the number of the pay telephone across the hall from his room.
He'd left one of those cards with Mrs. Duvall.
Earlier today, he'd gone in search of a "secretary" and had bumped into Dixie. She was a good whore and an even better snitch. The former he had no personal knowledge of, but he had bought information from her several times, and it had always proven to be valid. She'd been working the streets since she was thirteen. It was a marvel to Burke that she'd lived to the ripe old age of seventeen.
"You know, I hardly recognized you this morning," she observed as she rolled the cold can across her heavily rouged lips."When did you lose the mustache?"
"Few days ago."
"How come?"
"Felt like it."
"You working undercover now?"
"You could say that."
"The bitch on the phone said she was from Pinkie Duvall's office.
What gives?"
"You don't need to know."
"Jeer, Basile, you're a hard man to draw out."
"I guess I don't feel like talking, Dixie." He stretched out on the bed beside her and wadded the flat pillow beneath his head.
She rolled toward him and placed her thigh over his."Fine and dandy with me, honey. We don't have to talk."
Her hand slid down his chest to his belt buckle and began to unfasten it. He covered her hand."That's not what I meant. You've already earned your forty dollars, and I'm on a tight budget."
She thought about it for a second or two. Then she ran her long fingernail along his recently shaved upper lip."What the hell, I'll throw it in for free."
"Thanks, but not this time."
"How come? Are you the last remaining faithful married man?"
"Not anymore."
"You're not faithful anymore?"
"I'm not married anymore."
"Then what's the problem? Come on, Basile. I've had other cops.
Dozens of them. You're the last holdout, and I've got a reputation to uphold. Can you honestly say you haven't thought about boffing me?"
He smiled at her."Dixie, you're a knockout. I'm sure boffing you is one of life's greatest pleasures. But I could have a daughter your age."
"What's age got to do with it?"
"Right now, everything. I'm tired and need some sleep."
"It's the middle of the day."
"I was up late last night."
"All the more reason for you to relax and enjoy. I'll do the work."
Her hand wandered back to his belt buckle.
Again he stopped her."Not this time."
She expelled a green-apple-scented breath of disappointment.
"Okay," she said grudgingly."But could I just lie here with you for a while and rest?"
His glance moved from the rosy pout of her lips to the breasts spilling from the lace brassiere cups."I don't think I'd get much rest."
She grinned impishly."So I do turn you on."
"Scram, Dixie. Let me take a nap in peace."
He gave her an affectionate push, and she scooted off the bed."Oh well, I gave it my best shot." At the door, she stood with one hand on her hip, the other on the doorknob."If you're screwing around with Pinkie Duvall, you're asking for trouble."
"I know."
"Good guys like you are few and far between, Basile. Take care of yourself, okay?"
"You too, Dixie."
Just as she opened the door, the pay phone in the hallway rang.
Basile came off the bed like a rocket."Answer it," he told Dixie pushing her across the hallway ahead of him."Same as before."
The prostitute sounded like a trained secretary when she picked up the telephone on the third ring."Good afternoon. Jenny's House." She listened, then said, "Hold on, please."
Covering the mouthpiece, she whispered."She wants to speak to Father Gregory."
"She? The same woman as before?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Tell her that Father Gregory is out. Ask if she wishes to speak to Father Kevin."
"And that would be ... ?"
"Me."
Dixie eyed him suspiciously, but she relayed the message. After a moment, she handed the receiver to Burke."You're on, Fadre."
"Hello. This is Father Kevin."
"Hello, Father. It's Remy Duvall." His eyes closed momentarily. So far, it was working."Oh, yes.
Hello.
How are you, Mrs. Duvall?"
"Fine, thanks. Is the invitation to tour Jenny's House still open?"
"Certainly. When are you available?"
"The day after tomorrow? After lunch?"
Day after tomorrow. After lunch. Barely forty-eight hours. Could he make all the arrangements by then? "That would be fine," he heard himself say."Three o'clock?"
"Perfect. What's the address?"
"Uh, actually, Mrs. Duvall, it's rather hard to find. Instead of giving you directions, it would be much simpler if Father Gregory and I picked you up and took you there."
"Oh. I don't know ..." Sensing her hesitation, he said, "Your contribution was a direct answer to our prayers. We used your check to purchase a muchneeded van.
We'd like to show it off." Dixie was giving her chewing gum a vigorous workout and watching him with amused wonder.
"I'm so pleased you were able to put our donation to good use," Remy Duvall said.
"So, shall we pick you up?"
"Well, I suppose that would be all right." Then, more definitely, "Yes, pick us up here."
" Us'?"
"My, uh, Errol. He'll be coming along."
"Fine."
"Then I'll see you the day after tomorrow at three."
He agreed to the day and time and hung up but kept his hands around the receiver. He was standing still, staring vacantly into near space, but his mind was racing. After a moment, he realized that Dixie was still there, leaning against the wall with her arms folded, observing him shrewdly."What's with you, Basile?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look like a boy who just got a date with the prom queen, excited and scared at the same time."
"Hardly a date, Dix," he said absently. Then, shaking himself out of his daze, he thanked her again for her help."I couldn't have done it without you."
"What'd you do?"
"Never mind." Impulsively, he began patting down his pockets in search of something to write on."Listen, I'm going to give you an address, and I want you to keep it. If you ever need a safe place, go there."
He found an old convenience-store receipt in his pants pocket and scribbled down the address. Dixie barely glanced at it before tucking it into one of the pockets of her jacket."Safe place? Nothing's going to happen to me."
"Don't be stupid. Girls like you have a short life span." He tapped the pocket where she'd placed the slip of paper."Don't forget."
Burke leaned his head against the headrest of his new car. Well, hardly new, just different from the Toyota. Although it was difficult, he resisted closing his eyes. If he did, exhaustion might claim him and he would fall asleep and miss something.
He hoped that after all the trouble he'd gone to placing it, the damn bug would work.
Duvall probably had the house swept daily for listening devices, and, while he wouldn't have known it was Burke Basile who'd placed the tiny wireless microphone beneath his nightstand, the two visiting priests would be among the suspects.
Since state-of-the-art equipment was costly, and Burke's budget wouldn't stretch that far, he'd called in a favor from a cop who worked the evidence room. A few years back, his son had got mixed up with a bad crowd. One of Basile's squads had busted him for possession. With the cop's blessing, Basile had come down on the kid pretty hard, scared him into a more receptive frame of mind, and turned him around. The family still felt indebted.
The dime-store-caliber rig had been seized in a raid, nobody would miss it, so the cop had heisted it. He and Basile had tried it out. It worked, but the quality wasn't great.
Thus far tonight, he hadn't had an opportunity to test it. After an hour and a half of surveillance, the master bedroom had remained dark.
He checked his wristwatch. Twelve minutes past eleven. How long could he wait? He was exhausted. Since hearing from Mrs. Duvall earlier today, he'd been busy.
"Father Kevin" had no trouble cashing Duvall's check from the bank he'd written it on. The money had enabled him to pay an individual cash for an inexpensive van advertised in the classified ads. He'd driven the van straight to a cut-rate paint and body shop, where he asked for a rush job. It would be ready by tomorrow afternoon. He then returned to his room and cut out a stencil of cardboard, which he would use to apply the Jenny's House logo to the doors of the freshly painted van.
The limousine glided past. By the time Burke realized that the approaching car belonged to the Duvalls, he was already looking at its taillights. He held his breath and didn't release it until the limo disappeared through the iron picket security gate at the rear of the property. A short time later lights came on in the master bedroom.
He slipped on the headset and immediately heard voices.
" ... in the opera ... heard her ... and ... stunk." That from Pinkie.
Burke readjusted the headset in time to hear Mrs. Duvall say, ".
proud of her for making it past the first audition. She's their only daughter."
"Well I was bored stiff. It's hot in here. Turn down the thermostat."
For several minutes Burke heard nothing more and envisioned them in their respective dressing rooms, preparing for bed. The next words were from Mrs. Duvall: "I'll write them a thank-you note tomorrow."
"Whatever. Take that damn thing off."
The light went out. Coming through the earphones were the sounds of rustling bed linens, of bodies readjusting, of Pinkie moving close to his naked wife and caressing the skin dusted with talcum powder from a silver-capped jar.
Burke closed his eyes.
"All the men there tonight were drooling over my beautiful wife."
"Thank you."
Burke told himself not to listen anymore. They weren't going to talk about Duvall's sideline business. He wouldn't learn anything by continuing to eavesdrop on what was obviously a private conversation.
But he listened anyway.
"I caught old man Salley looking at your tits. I glared at him. He blushed up to the roots of his toupee," Duvall chuckled."By dessert, he and every other man around the dinner table was using his napkin to hide a hard-on."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it, Remy. When a man looks at you, all he can think about is *." More rustling, the readjustment of limbs."See what I mean?"
She murmured something so softly the microphone failed to pick it up.
Whatever she said pleased Duvall because he chuckled with selfcongratulationso "You know what to do with it, sweetheart."
A moment later, a satisfied grunt from Duvall.
Burke bowed his head and rubbed his eye sockets hard.
After what seemed like an eternity to Burke, Duvall groaned, "Jesus, baby, that's making me crazy. Come here." Then, "What's the matter with you? How come you're not wet?"
"Let me up, and I'll get something."
"Never mind. Pull your knees ... yeah, like that. Like Pinkie taught you."
Burke threw his head back against the headrest. He continued to listen.
He listened to Duvall's chant of vulgarities, to his grunts and groans.
He listened through it all, until Duvall climaxed, swearing in loud gasps.
Then there was nothing transmitted into the earphones except a faint, electronic hiss. He listened for several more minutes. When his jaw began to ache, Burke realized that his teeth were clenched. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel they were white.
Slowly he pried them off. Removing the headset, he irritably tossed it onto the empty seat beside him. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating forehead.
Eventually, he started his car and drove away.