She looked downward to see if he'd slipped his identification under the door. As she watched, it slid under easily. There must have been a good inch and a half of space between the floor and the bottom of the door. She picked up the ID and scanned it. He'd been the one driving.
She opened the door and exchanged the ID for a white paper bag.
“How are you holding up?” Cohen asked.
“Pretty well, I guess.” She wasn't about to confide in this man that she was half worried out of her mind, a tale he might feel compelled to carry back to Jonathan if asked.
“Don't forget to lock up.”
“I won't.”
He smiled encouragingly. “It won't be long now.”
Another brave face, but no real news. If there were anything good to report, he was keeping it to himself. She shut the door, put the food on the bed then returned to lock up. Though the cheeseburger and fries smelled heavenly, she couldn't bring herself to eat one bite.
Â
Â
Regardless of age, race or ethnicity, the most likely place for a man in trouble to take refuge was with his mama. Freddie Jackson had reminded Jonathan of that. But since Moretti's mother had been dead for more than ten years, they tried his girlfriend's apartment off Webster Avenue instead.
A unit in the area had been sent to watch the place until he and Mari got there. The two officers followed them inside as they went to an apartment on the third floor. They took up positions on the opposite sides of the door, weapons drawn, not taking any chances that Moretti might be inside and willing to fire on whoever was on the other side of the flimsy door.
Jonathan rapped on the door. “New York police detectives.” He waited a moment. No shotgun blasts or blasts of any kind followed. Instead, the door was opened partway by a pretty, petite black woman.
She gazed back at him. “Is Tommy with you?”
Both her softly spoken question and her appearance surprised him. He wouldn't have though Moretti the type to venture over the color line, but stranger things had happened. What struck him most was the fear he saw in her eyes, not of him, but maybe of the situation. “He's not here with you?”
She shook her head. “He left this morning.”
“Can we come in?”
She stepped back, opening the door wide enough for him to enter. The place was small. From the threshold he could see the living room and kitchen. No sign of Moretti. To the left was a hall that probably led to the bathroom and bedroom. “Do you mind if we look around?”
She gestured toward the back of the apartment. “Go ahead, but he's not here.”
A quick sweep of the other rooms proved her right. “Do you know where he is?”
“He told me he was going to work.”
“But you didn't believe him?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “The last couple of weeks, he's been here a lot, but he isn't sleeping. He's not eating. This morning he gave me this.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small key for a locker or safe deposit box. “I don't know what it fits. He told me I'd know when I needed to.”
Jonathan took the key she extended toward him and put it in his pocket. How naïve could this woman be? She appeared to be in her early thirties, old enough to know that simply being Moretti's brother cop didn't mean he wished the man well. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anywhere he might go?”
“Sometimes we'd go to the bar around the corner, but I doubt he's there.” She paused, placing her hand on his sleeve. “I don't know what he's done, but I don't want him hurt. Promise me you won't hurt him.”
He scanned her face, this time finding both supplication and a kind of feminine determination he hadn't expected. Something told him she knew exactly what kind of man she was involved with, and moreover exactly who he, Jonathan, was and how he fit into the scheme of things. If that were true, that made her shrewd, not gullible, as he was probably one of the few cops on the case who wouldn't want Moretti taking the easy way out of this by either eating his gun or forcing some other cop to do it for him. If Moretti were guilty of more than concealing information, Jonathan wanted Moretti caught, tried, convicted and sentencedâsomewhere the population would really object to having a cop in their midst.
“I'll see what I can do,” Jonathan said. But really, the outcome of this was up to Moretti.
Â
Â
Thomas Moretti sat behind the steering wheel of his car parked in a cul de sac on a residential street on the edge of Brooklyn. The night was dark and moonless with the only illumination coming from the street lamps and the lingering lights in a few of the houses. It was over for him. He knew that. He'd known it before Amanda Pierce came sniffing around looking for answers that were better left uncovered. He'd known it was coming from the first day he took money to look the other way when he should have been doing his job. Other people might have the kind of luck that allowed them to get away with almost anything. He never had.
Once upon a time, he'd been a good cop, ambitious, proud to be on the force. Proud to have made something of himself in the wake of his youth and in Father Malone's memory. He'd been partnered with a veteran cop who taught him everything about surviving on the streetsâexcept what to do when your next partner puts a few hundred dollars in your hand and tells you it's your cut to keep your mouth shut about the drug dealer he tricked you into helping him roust. He'd taken the money, which he kept for years in a tin can in his closet, but he'd immediately asked to be assigned another partner. It hadn't occurred to him that a dirty cop was the worst type of enemy to have. His request coupled with a lack of explanation proved almost as damning as if he'd given one. He'd gotten his reassignment, but he'd also gained an enemy for life, an enemy that had nonetheless managed to ascend higher and faster in the police hierarchy. An enemy that made it plain that anything that he could do to thwart Moretti's career would be done.
After a while, it had occurred to him to question what he was busting his hump for when he was getting himself nowhere, when one vindictive son-of-a-bitch took it as his personal mission to make him suffer. Then one day, he'd found himself rousting some scumâtaking his money and drugs off him and offering his reluctant partner a share of the take. It had come full circle.
It was time to salvage what he could, not for himself, but for the others. They were brothers, the only kinship that had ever mattered to him. His mother had washed away her disappointment in a bottle of booze. She'd barely been coherent enough to notice when her truck driver husband bothered to come homeâquarrelsome and eager to take out his anger at his lot in life on the nearest person handy, usually with his fists.
Thinking back on it, he couldn't remember how the three of them had grown to be friends, except that like sought out like. None of them had a home life worth a damn. Each of them was searching, needy. He understood those kids who'd join a gang simply to have someone who offered the pretense of giving a damn about them. For a while they had been a gang, too, a gang of three, running the streets and taking what they wanted.
That was, until Father got hold of them. Something in the priest reached each of them, probably because he'd lived the life he wanted them to abandon. And for a while, each of them hadâuntil they'd heard the rumors about Father Malone. How could a man who demanded that they walk the narrow and straight path be guilty himself of stealing from those who needed him? More than greed, they'd felt betrayal and a profound sense of disappointment in the one man they trusted.
He couldn't speak for the others, but he'd gone to the church that night hoping to be proven wrong. But Father's denials had only angered Mouse. The more he and Randy tried to calm him, the more upset he became. He'd struck Father Malone who had gone down, hitting his head on the edge of his desk. The candle burning, the symbol of Christ's presence in mass and in the Father's office, was dislodged from its holder and rolled across the floor to settle underneath the window. The sheer curtains went up in an instant. Like any frightened, stupid boys, they'd run.
But later that night, in the heat of the fire, they'd made their pact. For twenty-five years they'd kept it and their secret intact.
But he'd known. Someday, it would come back to them. He knew that Father wouldn't approve of what he was about to do, even if he was sacrificing himself to save the others. But he was determined that it would die with him. It seemed fitting that he, the least of them should take the fall. There would be no more questions, no investigation, no doubt. One way or another he'd see to that.
He took his weapon out of its holster, whispered, “God forgive me,” aimed the gun and fired.
Nineteen
Jonathan pulled into the spot beside the unmarked car outside the motel and cut the engine. It was ten o'clock and he still had no idea where Moretti was or what he was up to. He only thanked God that he hadn't come here, that Dana was alive and safe. Part of him couldn't care less if they never found Moretti if it meant that would continue to be true.
He'd known almost from the beginning that he was falling for her. Why else would he have jeopardized his career and his investigation to keep her with him? Why else was it that concern for her safety fueled his determination to solve the case, much more than the vindication of the victim? Even Mari, who'd sworn after the last time she'd brought up the subject not to say anything else, noticed.
They'd stopped about an hour and a half ago to finally eat some dinner. They'd chosen to go to a restaurant rather than eat on the go as they often did, partly because they wanted to unwind and partly to go over all they hadn't accomplished in a day.
Once the waitress brought their orders Jonathan relaxed against the leather cushion of their booth. He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Weariness, both physical and emotional, pulled at him. But he sensed the opposite in Mari, an excited energy that the long day hadn't managed to sap from her.
“By the way,” she said, “whatever happened with Nichols the porno king?”
In the wake of everything else, Jonathan had forgotten all about him. “Turns out his receptionist was only sixteen. He claims he didn't know she was underage, but she was the only employee he was paying off the books.”
“So there would be no record he knew her age. Clever.”
“Not so much. When they came to arrest him on statutory rape charges they found the two of them in the act in his office. So much for trying to salvage himself by claiming he hadn't touched her.”
Mari shook her head. “Never underestimate the stupidity of the male mind once a little booty is involved.” She sipped from the glass of wine she'd ordered.
So they were back to their personal battle of the sexes. “You women are no Einsteins when it comes to men either.”
She made a disgusted face. “Tell me about it. Could you believe Moretti's squeeze? If I'd met her under other circumstances I would have sworn she was intelligent.”
Jonathan shrugged. There really was no accounting for taste, yet he wondered what Moretti could have done to inspire such loyalty in that woman. Maybe she was like a million other women blinded by love to everything except what she wanted to see. Or maybe there was more to Moretti than he, Jonathan, had ever gotten to see.
For a moment, he mulled that over in his mind, but quickly his thoughts returned to the one person who had constantly been on his mind.
“Why don't you go see her, Stone? We've done all we can right now. We've talked to everybody we could think of, been everywhere we could go.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Only to people who have eyes. Even the guys from this morning were taking bets on whether you were sleeping with her or not. But hey, we're cops. That's what we do. You know that.”
“And you don't approve?”
“I'm not your mother. I just don't want you doing anything stupid. We already discussed how you men get.” She sipped from her glass. “She's a nice lady, Jon. Sharp, compassionate. I doubt she takes any shit from you. I'm happy for you.”
“Thanks.”
She winked at him. “Tell me she's got a brother or two hanging around.”
“Just one. He's seventeen.”
“A little young for my taste, but let me know when he turns twenty-five.”
After they paid the bill, he dropped Mari off at her place, went to his and collected Dana's things and started off for the motel.
Now, sitting in his car, he took the Polaroid of Amanda Pierce from his pocket and scanned the image of her broken face in the dim luminescence of the track lighting recessed in the building's overhang.
Her murder had started it all, brought Dana into his life in a way that allowed him to know her as more than his sister's friend. He had no idea what Dana's feelings were or if a relationship between them was tenable once all this was over. But those few nights spent with her had given him hope that there was something in this world for him more than the grind of the job and the solitude of his apartment.
He tucked Pierce's picture back in his pocket. It was time he gave her something back.
Â
Â
For the third time that day, Dana jumped hearing a knock at the door. The first time had been when they brought her lunch. The second time was when the shift changed and brought her dinner. What could they want to offer her now? A midnight snack?
“Who is it?” she called.
“It's me, Jonathan.”
The three most welcome words she'd heard in a long time. She rushed to move the chair aside so she could yank the door open. She launched herself at him, clinging to his neck as his arms closed around her. She had promised herself she wouldn't act like a fool the next time he walked in the door, but she couldn't help herself, and right now she couldn't care less.
Her mouth found his for a kiss invested with her relief at seeing him, her love, and even a dose of sexual frustration. Last night, he'd held her until she slept, but he hadn't made love to her, hadn't touched her since the night before that when she'd found him standing by the window. He kissed her back with equal fervor, his arms crushing her to him.
But after a moment he set her on her feet and pulled away from her. She hadn't realized until then that he held something in his handâhis badge. He tucked it into his back pocket as he moved away from her. “Didn't I tell you not to open the door to anyone who didn't show you identification first?”
She glared at him as he went back to the doorway to retrieve her suitcase and nurse's bag and shut the door. Not exactly the response she was expecting to the hero's welcome she'd provided. Aside from that, he'd let her know they hadn't found Moretti yet. Otherwise, he wouldn't still be concerned for her safety. “Don't you think I know your voice by now?”
“That isn't the point. I don't want you to let your guard down, even if you think it's me.”
She didn't want to argue with him. He looked tired and lines of irritation and frustration showed on his face. She didn't want to do anything to make his job even harder. “I'm sorry, Jon.”
He closed the gap between them and pulled her into his arms. “I didn't mean to have you apologizing to me.” He kissed her temple.
She wrapped her arms around his back. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing much. I spent the day chasing a ghost. I don't know where Moretti's disappeared to. No one does.”
She bit her lip. Not the news she wanted to hear. “Have you gotten any leads on the other two?”
“No. Miguel Colon seems to have vanished into thin air, and there's no record of a Randy Parker being born in any New York City hospital around that time. No school records either. Randall must have gotten his name mixed up.”
“Wonderful. What does that mean?”
“The next move is on Moretti or whoever else might be involved in this thing.” He rubbed his knuckles against her cheek. “Now it's my turn to be sorry.”
He might fault himself for any lack of progress, but she didn't. The man obviously didn't want to be found and he'd do his damndest to make sure no one did. But that didn't make her doubt Jonathan. She leaned up and pressed her mouth to his, hoping to convey with her kiss the words of encouragement that failed her.
Something vibrated on him, tickling her, too. “Is that your phone, or are you just happy to see me?”
He shot her a droll look as he retrieved the phone and connected the call. Dana sighed. If someone were calling him at this hour, it was probably related to the case and probably important. She hadn't figured she'd have him for long, anyway. Surely the NYPD wouldn't appreciate one of its members making time on their time. But she wasn't ready for him to leave her yet. She'd spent most of the day alone, frightened, frazzled. Couldn't she have a few more minutes with him, just to have him hold her and remind her that everything would be all right?
She had to laugh at herself. If someone had told her a week ago that she would be looking to some man, a cop at that, for reassurance, she would have laughed herself silly. But a lot had changed in that short time, most of all her feelings for him, feelings she'd never thought any man would inspire in her.
A playful demon seized her, as she listened to Jonathan's end of the conversation. She leaned up and pressed one moist kiss to the side of his throat, then another. She felt him stiffen in an effort to retain some sort of decorum and ability to concentrate on what was being said to him.
After a moment, he closed the phone and clipped it to his belt. His arm closed around her and his mouth met hers. When he pulled away, much too soon for her liking, he brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He sighed. “They found Moretti's car, out in Brooklyn somewhere. They think he's still nearby.”
She turned her head and kissed his fingers. “Be careful, Jon. I mean it.”
“I will. You do the same.” He took her hand, leading her toward the door. He stopped by the bags he'd brought in. “I almost forgot. I brought you a present.”
He handed her a black plastic shopping bag, the kind you get at any bodega in the Bronx. He moved the other bags from in front of the door while she looked inside the one he'd given her. She burst out laughing as she removed one bottle of disinfectant and another of bug spray. She cradled the items in one arm. “Very funny.”
He winked at her. “See, even when a man gives a woman exactly what she says she wants, he's still wrong.” He pulled her to him and kissed her one last time. “Make sure to lock up after I'm gone.”
“I will,” she promised, feeling the same heaviness in her chest, the same fear, the same sense of frustration she had the last time he walked out the door. She put on the same brave face for him, but she didn't know how much more of this bravery she could stand.
Â
Â
Jonathan got in his car and pulled out of the lot. He took the turn that would put him on the southbound New England Thruway, but something about this situation didn't make sense to him. Worse yet, he couldn't identify exactly what. His brain was pulled in too many directions and his emotions were too chaotic for whatever disturbed him to jump out at him.
What was Moretti doing way the hell out in Brooklyn in the first place? As far as Jonathan was able to discover, Moretti didn't know anyone in that part of the other borough. Even if he did, why would he leave his car parked out on the sidewalk on a dead-end street that offered him little chance of escape? Moretti might not be the sharpest tool in the drawer, but he had to know better than that.
According to Mari, a patrol unit had spotted the car. An inspection of the interior showed a bullet hole in the driver's side headrest with the right trajectory and enough blood to suggest he'd tried to off himself. Since there was no body found, and no signs one had been carried off, according to the officers at the scene, maybe he'd changed his mind at the last minute and only managed to wound himself. If that were true, where was he? Some genius had come up with the idea that maybe Moretti realized he needed to get out of there, knew he was in no shape to drive and took off on foot. Who knew? It wasn't the first element of this case that didn't make any sense. They still didn't know why Pierce's killer had left her in a garbage can behind a pizzeria of all places.
Damn!
At least at this time of night, with the roads almost empty, he'd probably make it out to Brooklyn in half an hour. With any luck, someone would have found Moretti by the time he got there. Maybe, but he doubted it.
Â
Â
Moretti watched as Stone drove off. By now, half the NYPD must be looking for him in some godforsaken place at the other end of the city. He'd fooled them all, but he didn't think he'd fool Stone. Not that he thought Stone was brighter than any of the rest of them, but he had more at stake, more reason to be vigilant. And he'd lose even more before the night was over.
He smiled, contemplating it. But now was not the time for musing, it was the time for action. He scanned the area one last time and saw no one. Silently, he slid his car door open and got out in a crouch. He traveled down three cars, keeping low, listening. The two brain trusts they'd left watching her had the windows rolled partway down on the car. He could hear them talking. They'd let their guard down, too, figuring he was someone else's problem now. That suited him fine.
He was close enough now to do it. He took the string of firecrackers from his pocket. He'd been watching long enough to know that no one would be interrupting their coitus to investigate the sound, thanks to the barrage of firecrackers that had gone off that day, some of which he'd set off himself. He lit the end of the string and tossed it so that it landed between her door and the car. He only needed a minute for the cops' eyes to be trained on something other than him.