“Ms. Winston, the city needs your help,” said Livingston, jumping right into it. As soon as he invoked “the city,” I knew what was coming next.
Could she possibly “consult” with her neighbors to see if anyone saw the shootings? All it would take was one brave individual to come forward, he explained. Simple as that.
If only.
In the battle between civic duty and self-preservation, my money is always on Darwin.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Ms. Winston. She was only being polite, though. All she could really see was her young boy by her side. What she may or may not have owed “the city” paled immensely to what she owed Miles. First and foremost was being there for him.
But the world is a far less complicated place for a six-year-old.
“Are you guys talking about the guy with the gun?” asked Miles. “Because I saw him.”
“You did?” asked Livingston.
Miles nodded. “Yeah. I was practicing my trumpet in front of the window in our apartment and—”
Ms. Winston all but slapped her hand over Miles’s mouth. “No, he didn’t,” she said. “He didn’t see anything.” As fast as she had arrived, she grabbed his small hand and began walking away.
“Wait!” said Livingston. He was about to chase her down when I stepped in front of him, blocking his way. He glared at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Being smarter than you,” I said.
He tried to push his away around me. “Get out of my way,” he said.
That didn’t work out so well for him, as I quickly found his right clavicle with my thumb and forefinger, squeezing good and hard. The Chinese call it the rooster pinch because the remaining fingers look like a rooster’s comb. I simply call it the way to stop a man cold in his tracks when kicking him in the balls isn’t an option.
Either way, I suddenly had Livingston’s undivided attention. He knew the only way the pain would stop was if he listened, so he did.
“There’s a better way to do this,” I said.
Chapter 62
“THAT WASN’T exactly on my bucket list,” said Tracy, stepping out of the cruiser on the corner of 112th Street. It was his first time riding in a police car.
“Believe me, that won’t be the last of your first-time-evers today,” I said. “C’mon, let me introduce you to the mayor.”
Tracy had tried to convince me over the phone that the subway would’ve been a faster means for him to get up to Harlem. He might have been right, but it wasn’t my decision. Once I convinced Deacon, Livingston, and even Elizabeth that this was the right move, the travel plans were out of my hands. Saxon radioed for the car.
“So you’re the woman’s attorney?” asked Livingston.
I had introduced Tracy to Deacon and the commissioner in the back of a nearby diner commandeered by the mayor’s staff. Elizabeth was next when Livingston rudely jumped the line on her. To know Tracy was to know that that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Hi, Elizabeth. I’m Tracy,” he said, ignoring Livingston.
Elizabeth shook Tracy’s hand, barely suppressing a chuckle. As first impressions go, Tracy had knocked it out of the park. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said.
“As to your question, Beau, the answer is no,” said Tracy. Leave it to him to already know who Livingston was…and to call him by his first name. “I’m not Ms. Winston’s attorney. However, I do provide legal counsel to her through a legal aid center here in Harlem.”
“Tomato, tomahto,” said Livingston.
“Actually, no,” said Tracy. “There’s only one way to pronounce attorney-client privilege, and that’s not something I currently share with her.”
Livingston turned to me, piqued. “Remind me again why you wanted him here, Reinhart?”
“He’s here because Ms. Winston trusts him and because he’s the only one who might be able to get her little boy to tell us what he saw,” I said. “Do I need to explain it to you a third time?”
“No, you don’t,” said the mayor, shutting down Livingston. He turned to Tracy. “We appreciate your help, Mr. McKay.”
“You’re welcome,” said Tracy. “I just can’t promise anything.”
“I understand,” said Deacon. “Of course that would make you a lousy politician.”
“So are we ready?” asked Saxon. He motioned to the front of the diner, the door partially visible behind a waitress taking an order.
“Yeah. Let’s get this done,” said Deacon.
Immediately Tracy gave me the Look. I hadn’t mentioned his one condition to the group, the one thing he required in return for agreeing to do this. I figured we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.
We’d come to it.
“Where’s everyone going?” asked Tracy.
Livingston was mastering the art of chiming in at the wrong time. “We’re going with you, of course.”
Tracy shook his head. “Perhaps Dylan didn’t make it clear, but—”
“We can’t let you do this on your own,” insisted Livingston.
“Yeah—that wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Deacon.
“Why not?” asked Elizabeth. “In fact, it’s probably the best idea. If Ms. Winston trusted any of us we’d already be talking to Miles right now.”
“She has a point,” said Saxon. “I think we all benefit if Mr. McKay goes at this alone.”
Deacon gave the nod, and the commissioner raised his notepad, adjusting his glasses. He’d already made a call and gotten the address.
“That’s okay. I already know where they live,” said Tracy.
Twenty minutes later, he was back in the diner. As soon as I saw him come through the door I knew something was up.
“Well?” asked Deacon. “How did it go?”
It was as if Tracy didn’t hear him. Instead he walked straight toward Saxon, extending his hand as if the two had never met.
“Commissioner Saxon, my name is Tracy McKay, and I’ve just witnessed a murder.”
Chapter 63
“ACTUALLY, MAKE that four murders,” said Tracy.
The strongest smell in the diner was no longer the burgers on the grill. It was everyone’s brain working overtime.
Deacon waved the white flag first. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Tracy didn’t flinch. “As you know, Mr. Mayor, I do volunteer work in the vicinity, and I was out for a walk when I saw a black car—the make unknown—pull up to the curb across the street. Someone inside the car then opened fire on the four young men walking on the sidewalk. The last thing I saw was the driver of the car get out and approach one of the victims lying on ground. He put something in his mouth, but I couldn’t see exactly what it was.”
“Can you describe the driver?” asked Elizabeth.
Deacon, Livingston, and even Saxon did a double take on her. What the hell is happening here? What are we missing?
A law degree, for starters. Or just some very quick thinking.
“Good question,” I said, joining in with Elizabeth. “Was the driver wearing any particular item of clothing or markings?”
“As a matter of fact he was,” said Tracy. “He had a black bandanna tied around his arm, outside of a gray hoodie.”
Deacon and Livingston had officially caught up. Saxon, too. “Black bandanna,” said the commissioner. “That’s the Tombs.”