Ladykiller (8 page)

Jamie sat with Safir and Wise at McSorley’s and nursed a beer. “You
guys know Dave pretty well.”
They nodded in unison. “Know him,” Safir said. “Knew his dad.”
Wise signaled for another round. “A cop family. Irish. Queens.
The usual.”
“Dave had some kind of a problem,” Jamie said. “No one will tell
me what that is.”
“Uh— shouldn’t you ask Dave?”Wise suggested.
“I’m asking you.”
Safir and Wise exchanged a look.
“Dillon was a rising star until six, seven, or so months ago,”Wise
said. “Then he fell in love with a... uh...”
“With his work,” Safir said. “It didn’t work out.”
“Look, Jamie,” Wise said, lowering his voice. “Can I ask a personal question, or should I just go fuck myself?”
Jamie bristled for a moment.Then she softened and gave a wary
smile. “You can ask.”
“I know you got a dose of the hots for Dave,”Wise said. “But are
you sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Jamie answered, trying for a light tone.
“I’m looking for a couple of smiles, that’s all.”
Wise nodded. “All I’m saying is: Dillon may not be Mr. Right,
Jamie.” He looked at Safir who took up the tale.
“He gets mixed up with the wrong kind of women. Like his old
man. It caught up with him. He’s a fallen angel —” Safir fell quiet and
took a major swallow of beer.
“He didn’t lose his shield, but he’ll never get promoted,” Wise
said. “Like his old man.”
“Unless he solves a big, splashy case,” Safir amended.
“A real career-maker,”Wise intoned.
Bewildered, Jamie signaled for another round. “But what happened?”
They exchanged a look and accepted the beer.Then they changed
the subject and Jamie could not get another word out of them about
the one topic that interested her.

The day had grown old and the last water colors of sundown were
fading in the western sky when Dave reached the crime scene. The
yellow police tape had already been ripped apart by tenants needing
access to the apartment house door before which Reuben had died.
His blood stained the sidewalk like a scarlet obscenity. Westward,
where the array of looming buildings drank in the last of the day’s
blues and pinks, the shadows were coming out of their lairs.

The accomplice, if that’s what he was, had run west. After the
murder, the shooter had traveled west, as well.Were the shooter and
the accomplice going to rendezvous?

Interestingly, Reuben must have been walking from the west to
reach the site of his death. Coming from the West Side Crisis Center.
Nita Bergstrom had said he simply left. Did he have an appointment to
meet the shooter, the accomplice, or both?

Dave went west, toward the crisis center, staying on the same
side of the street that the crisis center and the crime scene were on.
Chances were Reuben had stayed on that side. Alert for the stray detail, for the change in the psychic currents, Dave progressed slowly
along the sidewalk.

Megan — on the same sidewalk, headed straight toward him.
Did Dave see her first? Or did she see him? Or did they recognize each
other at the same time?

He registered the paleness of her skin, the reddish-gold hair. Her
eyes sparkled. She had put the cares of the day behind. “I didn’t expect
to see you till tomorrow,” she said, clearly glad she was seeing him
now.

He smiled back, perhaps his most genuine smile in months. “I’ve
got a little work left. Feeling better?”
“A bit.” Megan’s smile dimmed. “It was a tough day at work.
Everybody was out of it. Except for Nita. She’s incredible. She’s actually spelling Rose tomorrow night on the hotline because Rose is so
upset.”
“You admire Nita, don’t you?”
“Everyone does. I’ve never met anyone like her.” Megan shrugged
awkwardly, showing the odd deference she had displayed earlier.
“Well, I’d better get going. Got to finish picking my courses for next
semester.”
“Hunter School of Social Work, right?”
Her brow crinkled, her smile gone. “How did you know that?”
“Hey, I’m a detective, remember? Anyway, Dr. Solomon briefed
me on the staff.”
“Well, I’d better get going. See you tomorrow.”
Megan walked on and turned and gave him a wave.
As men have done since the beginning of civilization, Dave examined the woman’s walk. He sighed deeply. She had legs like a
dancer.

Ace’s brains were a little scrambled from drugs, malnutrition,
neglect, and general disuse, but he was far from stupid. When he
heard about Reuben’s death, he knew instantly what had happened.
He put it together. It only made him love her more. With a woman
like Nita, he could do anything. And to win her, he had to be strong.

The coolness with which she had blown that guy to hell and then
walked away — Ace could only shake his head in admiration. This
showed a kind of cool that Ace had only imagined or seen in movies. It
was an attitude he always aspired to, but had seldom seen.

A .45. Ace had never fired one. In fact, Ace had never fired a gun
in his life, except for the .22 pistol his pal Joey had boosted from a
neighbor back in New Jersey.

Ace’s father had been a brave and highly decorated soldier in
Vietnam — or so Ace had heard, never having met the man. But Ace
himself had inherited no firearms prowess, let alone bravery. Joey
called him a pussy when Ace missed every one of the tin cans they
lined up along the fence. He had winced with every shot.

Maybe Ace’s mother, Doris, was to blame. A slatternly woman
with a fondness for the bottle, she would not allow guns in their
trailer home on the outskirts of Rahway. Even when she turned tricks
for the local cops, she insisted that they take off their weapons before
she would let them in. “I don’t entertain anyone who’s armed, no
matter how good he’s paying,” she would say self-righteously in the
small trailer, stinking of whiskey, cigarettes, and sex.

When Ace joined Joey in holding up a 7-Eleven, he had been too
afraid to carry the .22 and merely stood lookout instead.That turned
out to be a rare piece of good fortune for Ace.

When the cops caught them a half hour later with their pathetic
take of fifty bucks, Joey drew the hard time. Five big years for armed
robbery. Ace got probation as a first-time offender and accomplice. It
also helped that Doris Cronen made the Rahway police chief holler
every Wednesday night before he went home to his family.

Sitting outside the trailer, as he always did when his mother entertained, Ace had heard her tell the chief, “My boy ain’t no master
criminal. He ain’t a leader. He’s a follower. Give the kid a break.”

A .45.Ace knew from the papers that a .45 was a powerful
sidearm. Not the type of gun you would expect a woman to use. Nita,
of course, was no ordinary woman.

“Can you get me a .45?” he asked Tony Topnut.
“A Colt .45?” Tony Topnut said from behind the bar. “We serve
just Bud, Lowenbrau, and Michelob. And I gotta see your money before I give you anything.”
“No, a gun,” Ace whined, ignoring the insult as usual. “Finesse
says you sell guns.”
Tony Topnut put his fleshy face an inch from Ace’s. “Maybe
Finesse don’t know fuck all.”
“I need a .45,” Ace persisted. “A good one. With bullets. Not like
the one Billy Ray Battle had.” He giggled. “His damn gun wasn’t loaded.”
“You know how to fire a .45?” Tony Topnut’s breath reeked of
onions.
“Sure. Used one lots of times.”
Tony Topnut roared his onion laugh into Ace’s face. His bulk jiggled beneath his Hawaiian shirt. “Let me guess.You’re the Ladykiller,
right? You and Billy Ray.”
People were looking at them, now, and Ace snapped back, “I
might surprise you someday, you fat piece of shit.”
Tony Topnut grabbed Ace by the collar and pulled him halfway
across the bar. He whispered in Ace’s face, spraying sibilants and onion
stench, “Listen, you little fuck. Show me three hundred dollars, and I
might show you a gun. If I’m in a good mood. But right now, I’m not.
I want your ass out of here before my mood gets any worse.”
“Can’t I stay and see the show?” Ace croaked.
Tony Topnut threw Ace back hard, sending him crashing to the
sticky floor, tangled up in the barstool. “Get out.”
Ace, his face on fire with humiliation, slunk out of the Foxy Lady
with every eye watching.
The mocking guffaws followed him up the Deuce.Three hundred
for a .45. Christ.

Dave picked up Megan in an unmarked car. She said nothing more
than a nervous hello.As he pulled away from the West Side Crisis Center, he found himself tempted to stare. He allowed himself a quick
glance. Megan sat primly with her hands on her lap and her knees together. Her short skirt showed off long, sleek thighs.

Then he noticed that she was actually watching him.
“Better buckle up,” he said. “That’s the law.”
“We don’t want to break the law,” Megan said with a small, almost coquettish laugh.

He loved her laugh. It was high and musical, a brief, rich melody
that hung in the air after she had finished. From the corner of his eye,
he observed her pull the shoulder harness across her breasts and snap
it in place.

“I appreciate your doing this,” Dave said.
“I always want to support the police,” she said.Teasing.
The farther they got from the crisis center, the more Megan

seemed to loosen up.
“You like your work?” Dave asked.
“I love it. I love my job. Even though I’m going for my Master’s,

the crisis center is the best school. I get to work with terrific people.
Seasoned professionals. Dr. Solomon is quite well known, or at least,
he was in his day. And Nita — well, Nita is incredible. She knows
everything, she can handle anything. She’s taught me more than anyone I ever met.”

The enthusiasm in her voice grew as she talked. Without knowing why, Dave was annoyed.
“I get the impression that she actually runs the place.”
Megan laughed again. “The crisis center wouldn’t function without Nita. Dr. Solomon needs a lot of backstopping and organizing.
Nita takes care of that in her spare time.”
Dave tried to stop himself from glancing at Megan’s legs. “Sounds
great,” he said neutrally. “I appreciate the time I’m getting from you
folks.”
“May I ask you a question?” Again the teasing tone.
“Depends what it is.”
“Detectives aren’t the only ones who get to ask questions.”
He hadn’t figured her for a flirt. Some women were turned on by
cops, but not social workers. They generally regarded the police as
thugs in uniform.
“Ask away,” Dave said genially.
“Why did you want me with you, and not Nita?”
Dave felt that a polite, white lie wasn’t what Megan wanted or
needed. “I don’t think she likes me,” he said truthfully.
“Nita can be intimidating,” Megan said. “She’s so dedicated to her
work and so good at it that people sometimes are dazzled by her sheer
professionalism.”
“Good for her.”
“So, why me?” More of the teasing tone.
“You’re the first person I met at the center,” he said lamely.
She sat quietly for a moment. “Who are we going to visit?”
“The parents of Lucy Cristides,” Dave said, relieved to be off the
hook. “She was the cheerleader from Queens — 16 years old when
they found her body in the Meatpacking District. Lucy’s parents run a
coffee shop on the East Side.”
“What have you found out about the girl?” Megan asked, clinically detached now.
“People will always say the deceased was a wonderful person,
even if she was into bondage and devil worship. In her case, though,
she seems to have been a genuinely nice kid. A cheerleader. Pretty,
too. No troubles in school. Good grades. She wanted to go to college.
Helped her parents out in the coffee shop.”
“No boyfriends?”
“No.”
“Was she a virgin?”
Dave cleared his throat. “Not according to the autopsy report.”
“Were you a virgin at her age, detective?”
Dave chuckled. “No.”
“I was.” Megan said it matter-of-factly.
“Why do you ask?”
“These things are important to social workers.”
“Are you going to ask me where I lost my virginity?”
“If it wasn’t in a car, you owe me ten dollars.”
“I don’t owe you ten dollars.”
“You’re more predictable than you think, detective.” The smile
had returned to her voice.
Maybe he could get the hang of this badinage, after all. “I don’t
know. Sometimes, I surprise myself.”
“Surprise me sometime.”
“You’re on.” A big grin had stretched across Dave’s face.

It was Nita’s day at the shooting range. She caught the Long Island Rail
Road out to Uniondale and walked the half-mile between the station
and the range, the .45 in a gym bag. The spring sun felt good on her
scalp.When the range was a mere twenty yards away, she suddenly felt
someone’s presence behind her, following her, footsteps in time with
hers.

She spun around, hand pulling down the zipper of the bag. No
one. Just a suburban street, empty as the beginning of the world.
Henry, the owner of the range, greeted Nita with a hug and asked
after her health. The Fourth of July gunfire crackle sounded beyond
his office.
“Never better. Busy today?”
“Unexpected. Bunch of cops here. Nassau County P.D. pistol
team. Big match coming up. They were kind of last minute. But you
can’t turn away the cops.”
“Now, Henry, are you trying to tell me that all the lanes are
taken, and that I’ll have to wait?”
Henry shrugged elaborately, palms outstretched like an Arab
merchant. “What can I do?”
“Henry, I don’t have the time. I’ve got to get back to the city. Let
me take care of this.”
She easily spotted the leader of the team. He wore that judgmental look, often seen on coaches at the sidelines or other macho places
of worship. He fell for her challenge without hesitation. What man
could deny a pretty woman’s dare?
“How about a handicap?” the leader asked as he adjusted the
earphone-like protectors around his meaty ears. His pals had stopped
firing and were chortling among themselves and ogling her ass, which
was covered by tight black leggings.
“Sure, lieutenant, if you think you need one.” His cronies renewed their laughter, glancing nervously at their boss.
Novices think firing a .45 is like firing a blunderbuss. It is a heavy
weapon with a kick.You have to hold the pistol steady, lining up the
front and rear sights on the target, the silhouette of a man.Then ease
the trigger gently, almost lovingly. You should be so intent on your
target that pulling the trigger is virtually unconscious. Shooters who
pull the trigger roughly or too soon always missed. Her father had
told her:“There’s this monkey on your shoulder, shouting, ‘Fire.’You
fire when you’re ready, not when the monkey wants you to.”
Over the years, Nita had gotten good enough that she didn’t have
to keep the monkey waiting long.
“Five rounds from a standing position,” the lieutenant said.
“Lock and load,” Nita said.
She pumped a clip of ammunition into the .45’s handle.Then she
stood facing the target downrange, her feet spread, her right hand
wrapped around the weapon and extended before her, her left hand
gripping her right, pulling back on it, stabilizing the sights.
At the command from the tower, they opened up. Brass shell
casings flew out of their guns. Nita finished first.
At the tower’s command, they trudged down to the targets.The
coltish team members cavorted behind them.
The lieutenant had two bull’s-eyes. Nita had five.The other cops
exploded in mocking laughter.The lieutenant scowled at them.
“Boys, please,” Nita said. “The lieutenant and I had an agreement:
I’d fire at his target and he’d fire at mine.”
They stopped laughing.
Nita took the lieutenant by the arm and led him back to the
firing line. He was very flustered and looked at her with new admiration. “A lot of ladies are getting guns for self defense these days, but
not many of them could—” He gestured lamely back at the range.
“Tell me, lieutenant,” she said, lightly touching his bicep, “do you
know a NewYork City homicide detective named Dave Dillon?”

Dave parked the car next to a fire hydrant outside the Cristides’ coffee
shop.
“Isn’t this illegal?” Megan asked.
Dave put the Police Department identification on the dashboard.
“Who’s going to ticket me?”
She looked at him with coy amusement. “I can see you enjoy your
work.”
“My father was a cop. I come from a long line of cops. Grow up
Irish in Queens, and you usually become a cop.”
“What’s the attraction?”
“I get to meet interesting people.”
Lucy Cristides’ father had a doughy face that drooped when he
saw Dave’s badge. “How can I help you, detective?” he said morosely.
He was mopping the counter with a dirty rag, and he didn’t stop.
His apron had grease stains.The place was empty, and the smell of frying had started to fade.
“Mr. Cristides, this is an associate of mine, Ms. Morrison,” Dave
said. “We’d like to ask you a few more questions.” He felt Megan
watching him, studying him.
Cristides sighed. “I don’t know what more I can tell you. My
Lucy, she went out to see her friends that night. Only her friends, they
said later she never showed. She disappeared. Then they found her
outside that meatpacking plant.” He sighed again.
“And nothing had been bothering her at the time?”
Cristides talked as if the day had emptied him of energy. “She was
a teenage girl. She had her ups and downs. Boys. Her friends. The
schoolwork. The cheerleading. Clothes, looks, the usual things for
girls.”
“And she never went into Manhattan except to help you and your
wife here at the coffee shop?”
“No. My Lucy stayed near home in Queens.When she went out,
she went to her friends. Or to school things. She was not a wild girl.
Not my Lucy.”
A small, dark-haired woman charged out of the kitchen in the
back. “What you want?” she demanded.
Cristides spoke to her in Greek, but she ignored him.
“You the police again, hah?” she said. She waved a finger at Dave.
Her bare arms were covered with fine black hair. “What you want this
time? When you gonna find the bastard who kill my daughter?”
“Mrs. Cristides, this takes a while,” Dave said. “We’re trying our
best.The entire city wants us to find him, and we’re on this night and
day.”
“What you asking my husband?”
“Well, Mrs. Cristides,” Dave said, “I want to know if your daughter ever had any psychological problems.”
“You mean sick in the head?” she shouted at Dave, and advanced
toward him, making shooing motions with her hands. “Get out of
here. Get out. Leave us alone.”
“Mrs. Cristides —” Dave tried to calm her, but she kept shouting
at him.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
“We’d better go,” Megan said.
Mrs. Cristides followed them out of the coffee shop, her arms
flailing in all directions. “And don’t come back here no more. Asking
such questions. She was a good girl. Where were you when she was
alive. No?” She spat on the sidewalk.
“Gina,” her husband pleaded from the doorway. “Come back
now.We must get ready for the lunch.”
The dead girl’s mother stomped back into the coffee shop, still
muttering.
“She is upset,” Cristides said.
Megan looked after her with concern.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dave said. “But I have to ask you one question. Did
you ever hear your daughter mention the West Side Crisis Center?”
“The West Side Crisis Center? No, I don’t think so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cristides.” Dave shut his notebook.
“We’re right across town,” Megan said. “You can take a crosstown
bus from here nearly to the Hudson River.The West Side Crisis Center.”
Cristides shook his head sadly. “No. My Lucy was a good girl. She
had no sickness in the head. She was in no crisis. Just a good teenage
girl. Mixed-up about growing up, but just like all teenage girls.”
Dave and Megan got back in the car.
“You blew it, detective,” Megan said, with that teasing lilt.
“I don’t have any other way of dealing with her,” Dave said,
slightly annoyed.
“There’s was one way to get some answers.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Quit the police force. The mother had a beef with the cops for
not protecting her daughter, or at least for not finding the killer.”
“Get serious.”
“I am. Next time, let me ask some questions.And make sure they
know I’m not a cop.”
“You don’t look like a cop,” Dave said, and twisted the ignition key.
“What’s a woman cop look like? Or aren’t they real cops to you?”
“They’re real cops. I’m not one of those guys on the force who
won’t accept female officers. My father wouldn’t approve, but there
you are.” Dave pulled into traffic.
“Do they all look as good as that black detective who came by the
center yesterday, the one who’d been out talking to Reuben’s daughters? She’s an attractive woman.”
“Jamie Loud? Yeah, I guess she looks like a cop. And she’s a good
one too.”
“I think she likes you.”
Dave laughed in genuine astonishment. “Give me a break.”
“She asked when you’d left. I could tell from how she said your
name.”
“You could, huh? Well, Ms. Detective, what could you tell from
our little session with the Cristides?”
Megan said nothing for a moment.The car halted for a light, and
the circus of Manhattan street life ambled past their front bumper.
“There’s something about Lucy that they’re hiding. Probably something they consider shameful. I’ll bet it’s what we’re searching for. But
you’ll have a hell of a time getting it out of them.”
“Maybe.Want some lunch?”
They parked, once more at a hydrant, and he brought back food
from a deli: a Coke and a roast beef on rye with Russian dressing for
him, a Dr. Pepper and a BLT for her.
“I love how they do this sandwich,” Dave said.The Russian dressing thrilled his tongue.
“Did you pay for the food?”
“Give it up. Of course I did.”
“But you didn’t have to.”
He shrugged, his mouth full.
“I guess I’m struggling with the allure of being a cop. Park anywhere you want. Free food. I want to make sure I understand. Is it
about power?”
“For some, yeah. Not for all. Like my father. He was a great man,
a great cop, my father. And he never got off on being the big man with
the badge. After he made detective, he told me — I was a kid then —
he told me,‘It’s great to find out what’s wrong and fix it.’ ”
“That’s what you’re doing?”
“That’s what I’m doing.” He chomped into the soggy sandwich
and noticed, with satisfaction, that she ate hers with gusto.
“This case obsesses you, doesn’t it?” she asked in a voice muffled
by food.
“Yes. Every case obsesses me, but a big one is the worst. I have
pictures of the victims on my wall at home.” As soon as he had said
that, he wished he hadn’t. “Drives my cat crazy.”
“Pictures of the victims. After they were murdered, detective?”
“I’m afraid so. And call me Dave.”
“Why?” She scrunched up her face in mock distaste as she bit into
the large pickle that came with her sandwich.
“Why what? It’s my name.”
“Why keep gory pictures on your wall?”
“To remind me that they’re still waiting.”
“What do the faces tell you?”
Dave wiped his hand on a napkin and picked up his Coke can and
took a swig. “They were surprised.”
“Isn’t everybody surprised to see a gun aimed at them?”
“This is a different kind of surprise. The surprise of finding out
that someone you trusted wants to kill you. See, I think the victims
must have known the killer. And I believe they were surprised to see
this person they trusted pulling a .45.”
“Interesting,” Megan said as she licked mayonnaise off her lips.
“Why are you a social worker?”
“Same reason you’re a cop.To make things right.To save people,
save the world.”
“That’s possible? You can fix some things, maybe, but the whole
world?”
Megan nodded. “Nita thinks it’s possible. It’s our mission.”
Dave swallowed a hard lump of roast beef. “I guess she ought to
know.”