It is. The DOA down in the courtyard is Mookie Gillette, one of DeVon Carter’s slingers.
Monty is looking around the small apartment—photographs of adult kids, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. China teacups, a collection of souvenir spoons from Saratoga, Colonial Williamsburg, Franconia Notch—gifts from her family.
“Leonora Williams,” Monty says. “Rest in peace.”
He lights a cigar, even though the body hasn’t started to smell yet. The old woman is past minding.
A sector car rolls up in the courtyard and Sykes gets out. The captain walks over to the dead kid and shakes his head. Then he looks up at the window.
Malone nods.
Russo says, “I got the bullet. It’s in the wall here.”
“Wait for the Crime Scene guys,” Malone says. “I’ll be downstairs.”
He takes the elevator down to the courtyard.
Half of St. Nick’s is out there, kept away from the body by uniforms from the Three-Two and yellow crime tape. One of the kids says, “Hey, Malone, it true Mrs. Williams dead?”
“Yeah.”
“That too bad.”
“Yes, it is.”
He walks over to Sykes.
Sykes looks at him. “What a world.”
“But it’s ours.”
“Four deadly shootings in six weeks,” Sykes says.
Yeah, your numbers are fucked, Captain, Malone thinks. Monday’s CompStat meeting, they’re going to do a flamenco on your chest. Then he regrets thinking it. He doesn’t like the captain, but the man is sincerely saddened about the deaths in the projects.
It bothers Sykes.
Bothers Malone, too.
He’s supposed to be protecting people like Leonora Williams. It’s one thing when the slingers gun each other down, another when an innocent old lady gets hit in the cross fire.
The media will be rolling up any second.
Torres walks over.
Their arrangement has held for three months. Torres has stayed on Carter’s pad while Malone and his team haven’t let up. But now the tit-for-tat killings in the projects between Carter and the Dominicans, threatening an out-and-out turf war, also threaten the uneasy truce.
And now a civilian has been killed.
“Here’s a shock,” Torres is saying. “No one saw anything.”
“It had to be a Trinitario,” Sykes says. “Retaliating for DeJesus.”
Raoul DeJesus was gunned down in the Heights last week. Prior to his demise, he was the chief suspect in the murder of a Get Money Boy shot and killed on 135th.
“Gillette here was GMB, right?” Sykes asks.
“Born and bred.”
And GMB slings for Carter.
“Round up Trinis,” Sykes says to Torres. “Bring them in for questioning, pop them for weed, outstanding warrants, I don’t care. Let’s see if any of them want to talk instead of going to Rikers.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Malone, run down your sources, see if anyone’s talking,” Sykes says. “I want a suspect, I want an arrest, I want these killings closed.”
The circus arrives. Reporters, television news trucks. And with them, Reverend Hampton.
Of course, Malone thinks—lights, cameras, Hampton.
Actually, it’s not the worst thing. Hampton at least pulls some of the media off the cops, and Malone can hear him talking . . . “community” . . . “tragedy” . . . “cycle of violence” . . . “economic disparity” . . . “what are the police doing to” . . .
To his credit, Sykes takes on the rest of the reporters. “Yes, we can confirm two homicides. . . . No, we have no suspects at the moment. . . . I can’t confirm that this was drug or gang related. . . . The Manhattan North Special Task Force will be heading up the investigation. . . .”
A reporter breaks off from the gaggle and approaches Malone. “Detective Malone?”
“Yeah?”
“Mark Rubenstein, New York Times.” Tall, thin, a neatly trimmed beard. A sports coat with a sweater underneath, glasses, smart.
“Captain Sykes is handling all the questions,” Malone says.
“I get that,” Rubenstein says. “I’m just wondering if there’s a time you and I could get together and talk. I’m doing a series of articles about the heroin epidemic—”
“You understand I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“Sure.” Rubenstein hands him a card. “I’d love to talk to you if you’re ever interested.”
I’ll never be interested, Malone thinks, taking the card.
Rubenstein goes back to the impromptu press conference.
Malone walks over to Torres. “I want to sit down with Carter.”
“You think, huh?” Torres says. “You’re not his favorite police officer.”
“I’m taking care of Bailey for him.”
His trial is coming up, the fix will go in.
“Fucking Dominicans,” Torres says. “I’m Spanish and I hate those greasy cocksuckers.”
Tenelli comes over. “The GMBs are already talking payback.”
“Hey, Tenelli, give us a second, yeah?” Malone asks. She shrugs and moves off. “Get me with Carter?”
“You guarantee his safety?”
“You think the Trinis are going to come in when—”
“Not from the Domos,” Torres says. “From you.”
“Set it up,” Malone says. He walks back to where Sykes is just finishing with the media.
A plainclothes cop stands beside him.
“Malone, this is Dave Levin,” Sykes says. “He just came on the Task Force. I’m assigning him to your team.”
Levin’s maybe in his early thirties. Thin, tall, full black hair, a sharp nose. He shakes Malone’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Malone turns to Sykes. “Captain, can I have a moment?”
Sykes nods to Levin, who steps away.
“If I wanted a puppy, I’d go to the pound,” Malone says.
Sykes says, “Levin’s a smart guy, comes out of Anti-Crime in the Seven-Six. Had some good collars, did a lot of heavy jobs, got a lot of guns off the street.”
Great, Malone thinks. Sykes is bringing his old team over from the Seven-Six. Levin’s primary loyalty will be to Sykes, not the team. “That’s not the point. I have a smooth-functioning team. We work well together—a new guy throws it off balance.”
“Task Force teams are made up of four people,” Sykes says. “You need to replace O’Neill.”
Nobody can replace Billy, Malone thinks. “Then give me a Spanish guy. Give me Gallina.”
“I can’t fuck Torres like that.”
Torres is fucking you like a prison bitch, Malone thinks. “Okay, I’ll take Tenelli.”
Sykes seems amused. “You want a woman?”
Better than a fucking spy, Malone thought.
“Tenelli just scored very high on the lieutenant’s exam,” Sykes says. “She’s going to be out of here soon. No, you’re taking Levin. You’re shorthanded and, as I might have mentioned, I want these cases closed. Are you making any progress on Carter’s gun hookup?”
“It’s gone dead.”
“Easter’s coming,” Sykes says. “Revive it. No guns, no war.”
Malone walks over to Levin. “Come on.”
He leads him toward the building where Leonora’s apartment is.
Was.
Levin says, “I can’t believe I’m working Manhattan North with Denny freaking Malone.”
“You don’t need to suck my dick,” Malone says. “What you need to do is listen more than you talk and at the same time not hear anything. You get that?”
“Sure.”