The James Deans Part 13

"Look, you told me to find out what happened to Moira Heaton. That's what I'm trying to do."

"But this, really!"

"If my work offends your delicate sensibilities, fire me. Otherwise, leave me alone and let me do my job."

"I hope this doesn't blow up in your face."

"Don't you mean your face. I'm working for you, remember?"

"Are you? That's odd, I must have missed something. I don't recall signing a contract with you or handing you a retainer or taking any sort of action one might reasonably construe as enlisting your services."

"Now who's playing?"

"I don't play."

"That makes two of us." I hung up the phone, hard.

I was several things, but not a fool. It hadn't escaped my notice that Geary had taken pains to make certain no paper trail existed tying him to me. No money had changed hands. My retainer would be discussed later, he had said. In politics it's called deniability. In Brooklyn it's called covering your a.s.s. At worst, Geary could be accused of unwisely helping out a man who had once kindly employed his daughter. One thing was for sure, if the planted stories p.i.s.sed Ivan off half as much as they'd p.i.s.sed off Geary, the scheme would work like a charm.

Speaking of charms, I had to see if Larry McDonald's were working on the Queens district attorney. The plain truth was that no matter how outraged Ivan Alfonseca might be at the moment, he probably was neither crazy nor stupid enough to confess to kidnapping and homicide without some incentive to do so. Larry's a.s.signment was perhaps the most difficult of all. He had to convince the DA's office not only to keep our plan a secret, but to offer something to Alfonseca in exchange for an admission of guilt.

In the topsy-turvy world of criminal justice, this was quite a dilemma. On the strength of his Bronx convictions alone, Ivan the Terrible was unlikely ever to see the light of day again. It was the inverse of buying a gift for the man who has everything. What could you offer a man who already knew he was going to prison for the rest of his miserable life? Never mind that the Queens DA was even more unlikely to complicate a high-profile, slam-dunk case with hypotheticals. It would have been different if Moira Heaton had been a confirmed homicide. Then the DA would have been happy to clear the case. But for now, maybe forever, Moira's would remain just one of tens of thousands of unresolved missing-persons cases.

Before I could dial Larry's number, the store phone rang. Klaus picked up.

"It's Ronald McDonald on the phone," Klaus snickered over the intercom. "Don't forget to order me two Big Macs and a large fries. Ask him if Hamburglar is dating anyone. I love masked men."

"Get off the phone, Klaus."

"Okay, boss."

"Larry, what's going-"

"Get your a.s.s over to the Queens DA's office."

"Why? What's-"

"Shut up and get here."

IT TOOK LESS than forty-five minutes to get to the DA's office, but I wouldn't have been able to tell you anything about the ride. Although the sky was cloudless, I'd driven in a fog, unable to string memories from one minute to the next. I remembered getting into my car, and then, suddenly, I was there. Larry was waiting for me out front.

"What's going on?" I asked as I had earlier on the phone.

"Come on, the judge recessed today's court session for this. Alfonseca, his lawyer, and the DA are waiting for us upstairs."

"Waiting for us?"

"For you, really," Larry, said leading me to the elevators by the elbow. "Ivan won't talk unless you're there."

"He doesn't even know who the f.u.c.k I am."

A court officer was holding an elevator especially for us. We climbed in, the doors closing silently at our backs.

"Just like you figured," Larry continued, "Ivan went totally berserk this morning when word leaked back to him about the stories in the paper. He refused to leave his cell and demanded his lawyer come to Rikers to speak to him. Good thing Parson's son was on duty to smooth the way or this could've gotten nasty."

The elevator jerked to a stop. The court officer pointed out the way. Inside a conference room adjoining his office was Robert Hiram Fishbein, the district attorney for Queens County; Marissa Reyes of the public defender's office; and her client, Ivan Alfonseca. Fishbein, who bore an unfortunate resemblance to Groucho Marx, greeted our entrance with smiles. Reyes, a pet.i.te Hispanic woman of thirty, played it close to the vest, barely acknowledging our arrival. Alfonseca, however, looking small and ridiculous in a too-big polyester suit, fairly bristled with excitement at the sight of me. If he hadn't been cuffed to the table, I don't know what he would've done.

To his lawyer's shock and horror, he blurted something out in Spanish. Reyes tried not to show her dismay, but her eyes betrayed her. It didn't help her composure any when, at the conclusion of her client's brief tirade, he spat at me. He missed, catching Fishbein's pants leg instead. I recognized several of the words that had come out of Ivan's mouth: curses, mostly.

"Word for word, please," I said to his lawyer.

"Yes, Counselor," Fishbein barked angrily, wiping the saliva off his pants, "word for word."

She did not hesitate. "My client wanted to know if this was the lying f.a.ggot who had the bulls.h.i.+t printed in the papers about him."

I looked Alfonseca right in his dead black eyes, pointed at my chest, and said: "Si."

"Why?" he asked in English, looking almost wounded, before slipping back into his native tongue.

Reyes didn't wait to be asked. "He wants to know why you did that. He says it wasn't necessary. He says-"

Before she could continue, Alfonseca repeated: "No fue necesario! No fue necesario!"

She waited for him to finish. "My client wonders why you didn't come to him like a man and ask him if he did this thing?"

I bowed at him slightly. "Lo siento. I'm sorry. You're right, I should have come to you like a man."

"Okay," he said, smiling that cruel, superior smile.

"Now I'm asking, man to man, did you abduct Moira Heaton?"

Normally, this approach would have ruffled a lot of feathers, but this was way far away from normally. Fishbein understood he would never get this hard guy to talk to him. He had nothing to lose and an easy, high-profile conviction to gain. Visions of a press conference with himself standing between the mayor and the newly redeemed Steven Brightman danced in his head. Marissa Reyes, however, was not so quick to abandon procedure.

She put her finger to her lips. "Say nothing!" she admonished her client.

"Puta!" Ivan cursed at her. He hadn't enjoyed being ordered around by a woman in a room full of other men.

Reyes ignored him. "Before my client answers another question, we have to know what's on the table."

The DA wagged his finger at her. "Counselor, Counselor, what am I going to do with you? Come, let us talk in my office."

Reyes agreed.

Fishbein turned to Larry. "Captain McDonald, could you ask the court officer to please step in here and keep an eye on the prisoner? And why don't you gentlemen go grab a cup of coffee. This should take about fifteen minutes."

We took the hint. As soon as the court officer stepped inside the conference room, we retreated to the elevators. While we waited, Larry put out his right hand. Reflexively, I grabbed it with my right.

"You did it, Moe," he said. "You f.u.c.king did it. Maybe they should've given you that gold s.h.i.+eld when you found that little girl. What was her name again?"

"Marina Conseco."

"Right. I gotta admit, it killed me to give you those d.a.m.ned files, but you pulled it off. Congratulations."

"Let's give it fifteen minutes and see, but thanks."

Before we could get on the elevator, Fishbein stuck his head out his office door. "Gentlemen, if you please, the conference room."

It had been a quick negotiation. Reyes had done the best she could for her client, something about a sentencing recommendation that would allow, if the judge agreed, a few of Alfonseca's sentences to run concurrently as opposed to consecutively. As hollow victories went, this ranked in the top five. Instead of getting out a week or two before the sun went dark, Alfonseca might get out of Attica in time to enjoy a scenic vacation on a star cruiser to Alpha Centauri. Basically, he was going to die in prison.

"Mr. Prager" -Fishbein addressed me directly for the first time, waving several folded sheets of paper at me-"Ms. Reyes has informed me that this is a full confession as dictated by her client, Mr. Alfonseca, this morning at Rikers. It is alleged to detail the abduction, a.s.sault, and homicide of one Moira Heaton by Mr. Alfonseca. He will not sign it, however, unless he can describe to you the contents of these pages. I cannot by law compel you to-"

"Let's get it over with."

For the next half hour I had to sit and listen to Marissa Reyes recite in English the intimate details of Moira Heaton's last hours on earth. As I did so, Ivan Alfonseca never removed his gaze from my eyes, nor did his cold expression much change. Only when he described actions which refuted the fabrications in the planted news stories did he smile that smile. He was a man who thrived on the distress and discomfort of others.

"Get this piece of s.h.i.+t out of here," Fishbein ordered after Alfonseca had signed the confession, initialing each page and any minor changes.

Reyes looked sick, but no more so than the rest of us felt. As they began to lead Ivan away, he pushed toward me. "Man to man," he said. "Man to man. No tricks."

I ignored him because I was distracted. Something was wrong. A detail was missing, a very important detail that everyone in the room seemed to have forgotten.

"He kept souvenirs from all his victims, right?" I reminded Fishbein. "That's why the cases against him are such slam dunks. Well, where's the souvenir from this crime?"

The DA looked as if my breath stank of raw sewage. How dare I throw a monkey wrench into his plans for higher office? Reyes had already translated my questions to her client. Ivan laughed, bowing to me as if to say thanks for the reminder. He responded quickly, giving what sounded like a street address to his lawyer.

"He says her jewelry is hidden in a bandanna behind the boiler of the building he was living in when you arrested him."

"Anything else, Mr. Prager?" the DA asked.

The court officer didn't need to be told twice, and Ivan the Terrible was gone. Reyes, still a little shaken, left shortly thereafter. Fishbein was on the phone to one of his investigators, giving the person on the other end of the line the alleged location of Moira's jewelry. When I started to head out, Larry shook his head no. We were to stay until the DA was done with us.

"So, Mr. Prager, Captain McDonald tells me you're the one who worked this little scam," Fishbein said as he put down the phone.

"I had help."

"So I hear." The DA frowned at Larry. "So I hear. And if we find the jewelry where that miscreant has indicated, this will be a very good day for all of us. Captain McDonald also tells me you're Francis Maloney's son-in-law."

"I have that dubious pleasure, yes."

"With all due respect, how is that nasty old p.r.i.c.k?"

"The same, only more so."

Fishbein understood completely. He then turned his attention to Larry, speaking in vaguely threatening generalities. A police officer, especially one in the Intelligence Division, could get in a lot of trouble for sharing files and information with unauthorized civilians. At worst, he might lose his job and pension or do time. Even the sweetest prosecutor in town would have to ensure that such an officer would have no possibility of future advancement. On the other hand, such an officer might find it very helpful to his career to have a borough district attorney as a booster and ally. I interrupted Fishbein's rambling.

"Can I use your phone?"

The DA eyed me suspiciously. "It might be unwise to prematurely-"

"An up-and-coming prosecutor would be smart to stay and listen to my conversation," I said, parroting Fishbein's tone.

"Dial nine for an outside line."

Thomas Geary answered the phone. He had regained his composure from this morning and managed not to chew my head off before asking the purpose of my call.

"I'm sitting in a conference room adjoining the office of Robert Fishbein, the district attorney for Queens County."

Geary was unenthusiastic. "I'm well acquainted with Groucho Marx's stunt double, Mr. Fishbein."

"I believe he has some news for you," I said, and handed the DA the phone.

When I did, Larry McDonald gave me the thumbs-up.

"Yes, Thomas," Fishbein said, all the threat gone from his voice, "it's good to speak to you again as well."

For the next several minutes, Larry and I were treated to a somewhat skewed, if not completely inaccurate, description of the day's events. Though the DA was quick to highlight, even exaggerate, his role, he was savvy enough not to go too far over the top. After all, he had no way of knowing how much Geary or Brightman knew. Having concluded his chat with my employer and looking rather too pleased with himself, Fishbein handed the phone back to me.

"You did well, Moe," Geary complimented, sounding justifiably somber. "Though I am, for obvious reasons, relieved and happy at the results you have produced, I am at the same time sad for Miss Heaton's family."

"Watch it, Mr. Geary, you wouldn't want me to get the impression you actually have a heart."

"We can't have that, can we? I must confess to having had my doubts about you, but I could not be more pleased. You and the men who helped you will be well rewarded for their efforts. I would ask only that you not share this information with anyone until I've had an opportunity to-"

"I understand, but there are a few people who deserve to know. They'll keep it quiet if I ask them."

"To this point, your judgment has proved correct. I see no reason to distrust it now. On behalf of Steven and myself, please convey my appreciation. And, Moe, please ask them to make themselves available for the next several days. There's likely to be a lot of publicity connected to the resolution of-"

"I understand."

"I thought you might. Thank you again."

Larry and I waited with the DA until the call came in from the field. Though the detectives on the other end of the line could not be sure the jewelry they found was Moira Heaton's, it was, as Ivan had said, wrapped in a bandanna and hidden behind the old boiler. I half expected Fishbein to break into song or tap-dance on the conference table. I asked Larry to make the calls to the others.

"Where you going?" Larry asked.

"To tell a man his daughter's really dead."

GLITTERS WAS DOING brisk business when I walked in. Rocky was working the door. I guess maybe Adonis was out getting his body bronzed or something. With his face so distorted by scar tissue, it was difficult to tell if the ex-pug recognized me or not. I didn't leave it to chance.

"Hey, remember me? You tried putting your right hand through my rib cage a few nights ago before your boy took batting practice on my knees."

"About that, John, he-"

"I don't really give a s.h.i.+t, Rocky. Let's just say you owe me one. Get John. I'll be waiting at the bar." "Here."

He gave me my ten dollars back.

I didn't have long to wait. People are usually prompt on payday, and John Heaton was no exception. Unfortunately for him, he was going to get a bonus he hadn't counted on. When he sat down next to me, I said nothing, but continued nursing my beer. I removed two white envelopes from my jacket pocket and slid them along the bar to Heaton.