Chapter 5
It was one of those fortuitous early mornings when Billy was able to crawl into bed a half hour before Carmen had to get up, the bakery warmth of her body coming at him as he raised the quilt, making him both alert and drowsy. Still asleep, she rolled into him, a heat-radiant breast fanning flat against his ribs, an equally hotted-up thigh carelessly flung over the front of his suddenly ridiculous boxers. But she was still lightly snoring, and with the kids about to overrun the base camp it was better for him to concentrate on the stray curls of her hair that had managed to find their way up into his nose. It was all he could do not to sneeze.
“So you’re calmed down about Taft now?” she asked him thirty minutes later.
“Yeah, but I think I want to do this thing,” Billy watching her from the bed as she slipped into her whites.
“You should,” turning away from him to brush her hair.
He could hear both boys flying out of their bedroom as if someone had shouted, “Incoming.”
“But why should I?”
She took a breath. “Because you want to. Because it would make you feel better. Because it’s good karma.”
“It’s not like we’re rolling in dough.”
“Well,” applying mascara now, which as far as he was concerned was like applying black paint to coal, “we’re not exactly on the street either.”
Something containing liquid shattered in the kitchen, neither of them reacting.
“So you really think I should?”
“I think you want my permission or something.”
“I don’t need your permission.”
“I agree.”
“So I should do it, right?”
“Who.”
“Billy Graves, looking for Miss Worthy.”
Hearing his flat Irish municipal accent from the other side of her door, and most likely assuming he was just another Hudson County homicide detective, Edna Worthy—the grandmother of Martha Timberwolf, the girl murdered by Memori Williams’s twin sister, but really by Curtis Taft, if you wanted Billy’s opinion—called out, “It’s open,” letting him into her Jersey City apartment without so much as looking away from the TV.
She apparently made ends meet as a baby farmer, three subsidized foster kids roaming her overheated living room like cats, although as old and heavy as she was, she could barely rise off the couch.
“Can I sit?” Billy asked.
She gestured vaguely to the left side of the room, nothing there like a chair.
At first glance, Miss Worthy, a TV remote in one hand, a cell phone in the other, seemed unaffected by the catastrophic loss that had been visited on her only two days earlier, Billy chalking up her indifferent demeanor to a long, tragedy-packed life; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t witnessed this kind of non-reaction in people before. But then he noticed the carefully arranged semicircle of plastic-framed photos on the Cheerios-littered coffee table in front of her, the murdered girl staring back at her grandmother from all of her ages, toddler to confirmation to junior high school cap and gown, the face consistently heavy and glum, as if she had known her fate from the day she was born.
“Martha was the only blood to me left,” Miss Worthy eventually said, reaching across herself to pick up a toddler who came close enough for her to grab. “Now she’s gone, too.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Billy said.
“She helped me take care of these kids, and so how am I supposed to do that now. This ain’t a hotel, but you should have seen where they was before.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, glancing at a card table strewn with the silver-foiled leftovers of a half dozen condolence casseroles.
“Well, they all going back now. Except maybe this one here,” lifting up the kid in her lap like a kitten. “She looks like Martha a little, maybe she can grow up to be some kind of conversation to me, but it’s gonna be a race between her growing up and me growing down.”
“I hear you.”
“So what do you want to know I ain’t already said ten times to the other detectives?” Miss Worthy asked, palming crumbs off the girl.
“Nothing, really. I just came by to offer to help you with the burial, you know, if you need it.”
Miss Worthy finally looked at him straight on, her cat’s-eye glasses catching the light. “You police or not? ’Cause if you’re not, I’m calling them right now,” holding up the business card of the last sport-jacketed individual before Billy to come into her home.
When Billy entered Brown’s Family Funeral Home, Redman, draped in his work apron, was displaying, from the breastbone up, a man in his fifties to two of his younger relations in the middle of his living-roomturned-chapel. Not ten feet away, Redman’s son, velcroed into his activity walker, watched SpongeBob on a fifty-four-inch flat-screen, the volume insanely high, although no one seemed to be bothered by it.
“That don’t look like him,” the male of the two said.
“Did you see him when they brought him in here?” Redman asked.
“I’m just saying . . .”
“If you want, I can try to put him back the way he was,” winking at Billy.
Billy sidled up to the TV and turned down the volume. A few minutes later, unhappy but not sure what to do about it, the relations left the building without saying goodbye.
“So what’s up?” Redman asked, whipping the sheet off the lower half of the body, revealing a makeshift diaper fashioned from a tall kitchen Glad bag in order to capture any post-embalming leakage.
“I want you to bury someone for me.”
“Who.”
“A murder vic, sixteen years old, her people don’t have dime one.”
Redman’s wife, Nola, came in with a shopping bag of clothes: brown suit, white shirt, a tie, socks, and shoes, the suit and socks still bearing their price tags from Theo’s Discount House of Men.
“Where is she now?”
“Well, she lived in Jersey City.”
“So, Essex County morgue?” Redman began muscling the pants up over the Glad-bag diaper, the effort making his face bead with sweat.
“I assume.”
“That’s out of state.”
“So?”
“That’s extra.”
“You want my E-ZPass?”
Redman propped the body into a sitting position so that Nola could get its arms into the shirt, their son now rolling across the room while chewing on a take-out menu.
“How much do you want to spend?”
“How do I know?” Billy said. “How much does it cost?”
“Depends on the casket, the wood, the lining, the vault, the service, I assume you want a minister, some kind of celebrant, pallbearers, limo and a hearse out to the cemetery, do you have a cemetery lined up?” waiting on his wife to finish the buttoning. “Then there’s the pickup, the body prep, burial clothes if you need them, flowers, printed programs, you want those memorial T-shirts? I have a guy for that, then there’s the grave marker, the plot, the opening, the closing, the death certificate . . .”
“Just help me out here, OK?”
Redman wrestled the shirt tails into the pants, lifting the body off the gurney with one hand in order to do it, then stepped away to mop his brow while his wife threaded and then knotted the tie.
“Who’s this kid to you?” he asked.
“Collateral damage from Curtis Taft. It’s a long story.”
Redman looked at his wife for a nonverbal business discussion, which ended when she abruptly took off to corral her son as he threatened to topple the cosmetics cart, a rolling jungle of wigs, makeup jars, brushes, palette knives, and cotton swabs.
“I can put something together for seven K,” he finally said.
“Seven. Are you high?”
“You want to take your business up the street? There’s four parlors in the next two blocks, anyone offers you under that they’re going to put her in a cereal box, take her out to the cemetery on the bus.”
“I don’t have seven K.”
“I’ll ask you again, who is she to you.”
While Redman and Nola began dealing with the dead man’s socks and shoes, Billy told them the whole story, from the death of Shakira Barker’s twin sister five years earlier through her long slow nightmare transformation into a murderer herself, the victim, Martha Timberwolf, lying on a slab across the Hudson with no one to send her Home.
“I’ll do it for six,” Redman said, “and that’s costing me.”
Nola stiffened a little but said nothing.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“Can you pay up front?”
“No problem.”
“Can you do cash?” Redman rolling his prep cart close and pulling a chair up to the body.
“If that’s how you want it.”
“Because that would help me.”
“Help me help you,” Billy said, watching as Redman slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, then reached into the chaos of the cosmetics cart and extracted a tube of Krazy Glue. After squeezing out thin lines of the gunk on the lacerated palms of the dead man, he used his finger to carefully coat the skin.
“What are you doing?” Billy asked.
“What, this? If I don’t put some kind of adhesive on these defensive wounds here and people start stroking this guy’s hands at the service? They could walk away with a souvenir.”
Billy took a moment, then shifted gears. “You see Pavlicek recently?”
“He came in here a few weeks ago to see how my son was doing.”
“How was he?”
“My son?”
“Pavlicek.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure, I ran into him at Columbia Pres today.”
“Oh yeah? What was he doing there?”
“He said he was seeing someone for his cholesterol.”
“I’m not surprised, are you?”
“He looked like a zombie. I swear to God, every time I see him these days, it’s like he’s on a different drug. Tell me that’s high cholesterol.”
“All I know is,” Redman carefully recapping the Krazy Glue, “men that big can’t just eat whatever they want.”
“So, this witness, so-called witness, Michael Reidy, that you interviewed—remember him?”
Sitting across the desk from Elvis Perez, a tall, vulture-necked detective working the Bannion homicide in Midtown South, Billy tried to recall the face of the blood- or ketchup-stained drunk in the Penn Station waiting room. “Sort of,” he said.
“Well, we lost him.”
“Lost him.”
“We have his address from your Fives, but he’s not there, and he’s not answering his cell, so I was wondering if you remember anything he might of said to you or you overheard that maybe didn’t make it into your notes.”
“Do you know how many people we interviewed that night?”
Perez tossed a pencil on his desk and stifled a yawn. He had the kind of droopy eyes that suggested he had never recovered from the exhausting experience of being born.
“So where are you at on this?” Billy asked.
“Nowhere, really.”
Billy gestured to the manila folder on Perez’s desk next to a small plaster statue of San Lazaro.
“May I?”
Even in the bloodiest CSU photos, Bannion retained his startling Black Irish handsomeness, the best-looking corpse Billy had seen since Carmen’s first husband.
“The ME said the wound was jagged,” Perez said, rolling his chair away from the desk and then running the flat of his hand along the inside of his thigh. “The actor was no surgeon but he knew where to cut.”
“And nothing on the perp?”
“Plenty. He was short tall black white heavy slim, came flying in on a skateboard, rolled away in a wheelchair. Are you kidding me? The guy could’ve been seven feet tall with a turban, a beard, and an AK, screaming, ‘Death to America,’ and everybody there would’ve chalked it up to the DTs.”
“How about the tapes?”
“We finally got the south plaza footage back, but all it shows is Bannion running to the subways after the fact. The tape we really need, from over by the LIRR information board, we’re still waiting on. TARU says it could take a few days, a few weeks, or never. All that state-of-the-art equipment and some asshole spills a cup of coffee. How’s that for bang versus whimper.”
“For what?”
“Forget it. You want to see what we got?”
Perez slid the disc into his desk monitor, Billy standing behind him, ignoring the buzzing of his cell.
The captured stretch of arcade between the Long Island commuter trains and the subway entrance at first appeared deserted, all the action having taken place out of the camera’s range, the grainy footage of nothing and no one evoking the bleariness of the hour. But then here came Bannion running loopily into the picture, his light blue jeans turning purple with blood, his dripping shoes leaving those dark liquid footprints until he came to a baffled stop in front of the turnstiles and started fishing through his wallet for what—his MetroCard?—fishing and fumbling, and then, just as Billy had speculated at the scene, abruptly attempting to hurdle the low barrier but suddenly locking up in midair as if flash-frozen and dropping directly on top of the turnstile before falling to the ground.
“It’s not like it’s without entertainment value,” Perez said, “but it all happened on the other end.”
“And how long for that tape again?”
Perez shrugged.
Night Watch was strictly one and done; set up the morning man and move on to the next post-midnight felony. There were simply too many runs in a night, a week, a month to keep tabs, or even remain curious, about past crimes and still have the wherewithal to focus on the next one coming down the pike. Night Watch jobs, an old boss once told Billy, were like individual tears in a crying jag.
Still . . .
“Do me a favor?” Billy asked. “Can you let me know when it comes in?”
That night he was saddled with another strange player doing a Night Watch one-off, Stanley Treester from the DNA Liaison Unit, and when Billy entered the Metropolitan Hospital’s trauma ER to oversee a run-of-the-mill stabbing, he found him sitting on the edge of a gurney staring intently at a damp-eyed elderly man under a blanket. The old guy, oblivious to Treester’s presence, stared off into the middle distance as if into the void.
“I messed up,” the patient said to no one.
“Who’s this?”
“I thought I knew him from when I was a kid,” Treester said, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face.
“Do you?”
“No.”
“I messed up,” the man said again.
“Does he have anything to do with the run?”
“No.”
“Then . . .” Billy about to tell him to get in the game, then thought better of it.
“And I’m going to hell.”
“I’ll sell you my ticket,” Billy said, before walking off to find the crime.
The actual investigation into the stabbing took about five minutes, the Samaritan who had brought the victim to the hospital confessing the moment Mayo flashed his ID, the story behind the story being two brothers, a fifth of Herradura, dominoes, and a knife.
Stacey Taylor’s call came through while the doer was being cuffed. Billy, grateful that it wasn’t the Wheel with another run, answered right away.
“It’s four in the morning, you know that, right?”
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see how it went today with Taft.”
“I messed up, just went in there with no game plan and messed up.”
“Yeah, well, you’re only human.”
“But I want to thank you for your help.”
“Hey, that’s how we do.”
Still on the phone, Billy momentarily went south, thinking about the last few days: Bannion, Taft, Miss Worthy, but mostly John Pavlicek, wandering into Columbia Pres like someone had hit him on the back of the head with a bag of nickels.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hey. Sorry,” Billy coming all the way back, then: “Let me just ask, how good are you with hospital records?”
“Which hospital?”
“Columbia Pres.”
“I know a guy there.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Then you’d know him too.”
“I need you to look up an outpatient for me.”
“Who.”
He hesitated. “John Pavlicek.”
“Your guy from the Geese? What’s wrong with him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Do you know who he sees there?”
“Somebody for his cholesterol. Or so he says.”
He heard her light up, then expel that first buzzy lungful. “All right.”
“What do you charge for something like this?”
“When have I ever taken your money?”
Billy’s guilt made him wince.
“Maybe you should start.”