Justice by Dan Mahoney

Chapter 5

When McKenna returned to the office, he had expected that Cisco would still be miffed and cantankerous, but Cisco was all smiles. “Do we have it?” he asked.
     “We’re working it, but we don’t have it yet. For now, our job is to assist MacFarlane and Chmil.”
     “So when do we get it?”
     “When he hits again.”
     “So it’s ours tomorrow,” Cisco said, and his smile broadened. “Fine by me. Let’s get to work.”
     Cisco didn’t make his predictions lightly, and experience had long ago taught McKenna that they shouldn’t be taken lightly. “He’s going to hit again tonight?”
     “Or today,” Cisco replied, unconcerned.
     “Tougher to do what he does in the daylight.”
     “Tougher, but he’s taken that into account. He has a plan, and he’s gonna follow it. I wouldn’t be surprised if this were our case before we get off today.”
     “Then we won’t be getting off.”
     “Okay by me. What did Ray have to say?”
     McKenna took ten minutes to fill Cisco in, and then Cisco zeroed in on the point McKenna had hoped he wouldn’t. “What did Ray tell you about Cruz’s informant in the narcotics operation?”
     “Nothing.”
     “Nothing? Why not?” Cisco asked.
     “Because I didn’t ask him about it.”
     “Slipped your mind?”
     “No, Cisco, it didn’t slip my mind,” McKenna replied impatiently. “Ray’s under a lot of pressure, and he’s gonna be under a lot more. We already know that investigation went nowhere, so the timing wasn’t right to bring up another unpleasant subject.”
     “Don’t you think we need to know about that nowhere investigation?”
     “At this point, I’m not sure we do. Given, Cruz had either a narcotics cop or a DEA agent feeding him information on confidential informants. But Cruz is dead now, so answer me this: What good would the details on that investigation do us right now?”
     “Can’t answer that yet, but I still wanna know all about it.”
     “Then consider this,” McKenna countered. “We’ve been instructed to come clean with Messing. I don’t know if the time is right yet to give our dirty laundry a public airing if it’s not absolutely necessary to catching our killer.”
     “So what are you saying? If you don’t know the details, you won’t feel obliged to tell Messing anything about it?”
     “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We are gonna come clean with Messing, but we’re also gonna gloss over the things we don’t know about.”
     “You realize, of course, that Messing is one very hard man to fool?” Cisco asked.
     “We’re not fooling him. We’re just leaving out a point that would generate headlines that have nothing to do with our present mission. Let’s keep it simple for the press.”
     Cisco appeared dubious, but McKenna thought he would let the proposal pass without further comment. Wrong. “Okay, so we’re gonna bamboozle Messing,” Cisco observed. “Very tough job, but we’ll do it. Just tell me this. At some point are you gonna get from Ray the details of that embarrassing investigation that went nowhere?”
     “Yes.”
     “When?”
     “Right after we have some good news to give him.” # McKenna was happy with Messing’s choice of a meeting place, and certainly not surprised. The Wicked Wolf was Messing’s primary hangout, and the place where McKenna usually saw him in a social setting. It was the Manhattan detective hangout, as well as the place where many federal agents, reporters, prosecutors, and the occasional defense attorney met to discuss in an informal setting whatever crime story was dominating the headlines. The discussions were free and unfettered because, by tradition, The Wicked Wolf was a sanctuary, one of the two places in New York where a cop could grace a reporter with a few off-the-record comments that would give that favored fellow a correct indication on how a case was going, and those comments would never be included in any story filed. It was also the place where the future of any detective in the headlines was discussed and accurately predicted, and where deals were made between detectives, agents, and prosecutors that would permit progress on their cases to proceed smoothly without the political infighting that usually existed in joint “cooperative” efforts.
     Maintaining order, making the necessary introductions, and presiding over the process was Chipmunk, The Wicked Wolf’s lead bartender and one of McKenna’s best friends since his drinking days, twenty years before. McKenna had taken that department-mandated drastic cure, and he no longer drank, but that fact had done nothing to diminish their friendship, especially since the two men shared many other friends in common. They helped each other whenever possible, and over the years they had each become famous in their chosen professions.
     Chip was regularly mentioned in the newspapers’ annual feature articles on Manhattan’s best bartenders, but he was much more than that. In The Wicked Wolf, he was the arbitrator and final law on anything that happened there. When discussions got out of hand—a rare occurrence—Chipmunk might impose the ultimate penalty. He called it “Firing the Customer,” and more than one law enforcement or legal big shot had been embarrassed by him and sent packing.
     To the chagrin of most of the other steady customers, The Wicked Wolf was also one of Cisco’s favorite haunts, and he frequently annoyed them with his bruising ego—but only for a little while. Then Chip would say something that had an effect that always amazed McKenna. A simple “You’re out of order, Cisco,” from him, and that would be it. Cisco would immediately transform himself into an agreeable person, a person McKenna hardly knew.
     Messing was talking to Chipmunk at the end of the bar when McKenna and Cisco entered, and it took them a while to glad hand their way through the line of friends and acquaintances lining the bar before they reached Messing and Chip. Messing was also beginning to show his years, McKenna noticed with some satisfaction. Messing was in his late forties and he had black, wavy hair—actually, more hair on his head than McKenna had ever seen on any man—but he was finally beginning to go gray at the edges, and his glasses were a little thicker than they had been the last time McKenna had seen him. The effect was that Messing looked even smarter.
     That could be bad, McKenna realized, since he had always thought of Messing as one of the smartest men he knew. Getting a “No Comment” past Messing on any story was difficult enough, and successfully bamboozling him was almost impossible. Tough mission I’ve given myself, McKenna thought, and he hoped he would be happy when it was over.
     Messing had a large manila envelope in front of him on the bar. He was a laid-back kind of guy, and he gave McKenna and Cisco a simple handshake by way of greeting.
     Unlike Messing, Chipmunk was an effusive personality with many peculiar quirks, so McKenna expected more from him. He was ready for Chip’s traditional toast to all airmen downed, soldiers killed in battle, and sailors lost at sea, but all they got from Chip was a wave, immediately followed by, “You guys got a lot to talk about. Better get to it.”
     “You mad at us, Chip?” Cisco asked.
     “Hardly ever,” Chipmunk said, staring at McKenna. “It’s just that I’ve been talking to Phil so long that I’ve been neglecting my other customers.”
     Both Messing and Cisco looked down the bar to the other customers, but McKenna remained focused on Chipmunk, so he was the only one to catch the wink and the slight nod.
     Cisco and Messing returned their attention to Chipmunk. “None of them look too neglected to me,” Cisco noted.
     “I’ll be the judge of that. They all look entirely too sober to me, and that’s no way to run a business,” Chipmunk said. “You get to your business, and I’ll handle mine. Go eat, and we’ll talk later.”
     An order from Chipmunk in The Wicked Wolf was tantamount to imperial decree, so Messing and Cisco did as they were told. Messing picked up his envelope, and they turned and headed for the tables. McKenna tarried a moment longer at the bar to receive the message Chipmunk wanted no one else to hear. Chipmunk grabbed McKenna’s arm and leaned across the bar to whisper in his ear. “When this case is running you ragged and depression is closing in, come see me.”
     “And then you’ll have something to tell me?” McKenna asked in a low voice.
     “Yeah, if you haven’t figured it out for yourself by then, I’ll have something to tell you.”
     Many more questions formed in McKenna’s mind, but the conference was over. Chipmunk released his arm and wandered down the bar without looking back.
     What the hell was that all about? McKenna wondered as he caught up with Cisco and Messing at Messing’s usual window table. Chip never has to wait for the morning papers to catch all the news, and he’s just been talking to his old pal Phil—meaning that he already knows everything Messing knows. But who else has he been talking to, and what else does he know? Something big, I expect, but what?
     Since Chipmunk numbered most of the city’s first graders and even more feds among his friends and confidants, McKenna accepted that Chip always knew more about any case in the news than was ever reported to the common folk. So one of his friends had told him something in confidence about this case, McKenna figured. Something important, and Chip won’t break that confidence unless absolutely necessary—even to me.
     As he sat down, McKenna put the matter out of his mind and prepared to address the next difficult issue—Messing. “You wanna order first, or talk first?” he asked.
     Messing drained his martini. “Drinks first while we talk, then lunch,” he said. “I’ll have another martini.”
     Cisco signaled the waitress, and she was there in an instant. “A vodka martini and a Budweiser for the manly men, and a sarsaparilla for Brian,” he told her.
     McKenna had known Brenda for years, and she disregarded Cisco. “Brian?”
     “Thank you. An O’Doul’s, please.”
     Brenda left, and Messing immediately got down to business. He opened his manila envelope, extracted a smaller envelope, and passed it to McKenna. “Those are the originals. The letter and the envelope it came in, along with a fingerprint card on me,” he said. “I’m the only one who touched the letter.”
     “How about the envelope and the folks in the mailroom?” Cisco asked. “We need more than just your prints. We need prints on everyone who touched that envelope.”
     “And you’ll get them, but I need a small favor.”
     “We get them tomorrow?” McKenna guessed.
     “Yeah, after I file my copy. I’m keeping this story under wraps until then.”
     “Why? The letter’s addressed to you, meaning that Justice has selected you to be his press agent,” McKenna said. “You’re the star, and there’s no way your editor could take this story from you.”
     “That’s not what I’m worried about, but I have some problems with this particular editor. He’s one of those know-it-all whiz-kid efficiency experts Murdock brought from Australia to bring costs down.”
     “What costs? Yours?”
     “Mine in particular. He’s been breaking my balls over my expense reports. Idiot thinks I can get everything I need on any story from Public Information, like your palace guard lobolas downtown are gonna write my copy for me.”
     McKenna understood at once, and agreed with Messing: His editor was an idiot. According to the rules, cops and detectives weren’t allowed to speak to the press without permission from their commanding officers. Instead, all information on any newsworthy case was to be forwarded downtown to the Public Information Unit, and it was the mission of the functionaries working there to dispense information to the press. Good reporters recognized that the stories coming from Public Information were merely a condensed version of the real story, condensed in a fashion that would make the gullible, inexperienced reporter tend to believe that all real police work was done under the strict supervision and guidance of the one brilliant chief or another mentioned prominently in the Public Information version, and that every case was proceeding smoothly and according to plan.
     McKenna doubted that Messing had even once called Public Information at any time during his career, and he probably didn’t even know the number. All great, old-time reporters made it their business to intimately know all the great, old-time detectives—meaning those detectives for whom the more picayune department rules didn’t apply as they went about their business of solving the big cases and enhancing the department’s image.
     By tradition, those detectives were interviewed in restaurants over dinner and drinks, frequently in either The Wicked Wolf, Kennedy’s, Elaine’s, or Forlini’s. They were give-and-take sessions, with the reporter getting the true and complete story. In return, the detective and his unit got the ink, with his or her CO always prominently mentioned in glowing terms. There were many times when it would impair an investigation if certain facts were publicly known, but the detective could always go off the record to give the reporter the proper picture on the case. Those off-the-record comments would never appear in print, and wouldn’t even be divulged to the reporter’s editor.
     When the restaurant bill finally arrived, the give-and-take ended. The reporter usually paid, and the bill wound up as one more item on his expense account. Messing had numbered among his dinner companions at one time or another every detective and federal agent worth knowing, and he liked to eat fine meals accompanied by many, many martinis.
     McKenna knew that Messing’s monthly expense account had been considered unacceptably high by a few penny-pinching editors, but Messing always brought in the story, so those editors were all history and Messing’s lifestyle hadn’t changed one iota.
     Cisco, of course, also knew how the newspaper business worked in New York. “What happens between now and tomorrow?” he asked. “The editorial board meeting?”
     “That’s right. Every Wednesday afternoon,” Messing answered, smiling.
     “And your editor doesn’t know about the letter, so he’ll be complaining about expense accounts and talking bad about you to the managing editor?”
     Messing took a moment to check his watch. “With any luck, my name will be dripping from the dope’s lips in about two hours. He won’t be looking too good after I bring in this story, along with another big expense eat-and-drink session just to piss him off.”
     “So we’re part of your ambush? You’re the king again, and your editor becomes the joker?”
     “Timing’s great for me, as long as you don’t insist on making noise by fingerprinting people in our mail room today. If you do that, the word gets to my editor and he won’t take that wonderful opportunity to make a fool of himself at the board meeting ”
     “Fine, but that’s a favor you owe us.”
     “Cisco, do I owe you more favors than you owe me?”
     That stopped Cisco, and he ran the question through his mind. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted.
     “And neither do I,” Messing said. “But who’s counting?”
     “Phil, nobody’s counting,” McKenna said, seeking to get the conversation back on track. “You got copies of the letter and the envelope?”
     “Sure.” Messing reached into his manila envelope and gave copies of the letter and the face of the envelope to McKenna and Cisco.
     At that point Brenda delivered the drinks and took their orders. It would be steaks all around, and another martini for Messing. Cisco and Messing immediately took sips from their drinks, but McKenna ignored his and opened the envelope.
     The letter was what McKenna had expected, printed in black bold type with a computer printer on standard bond paper. The “Justice” signature, however, was in bright red in a neat, masculine handwriting. The location and description of the Upstate house on Route 28 where De Sales had his crack factory was precisely given, as was the name, address, and physical description of Ramsey’s girlfriend, Yolanda Williams. Equally precise were the descriptions of De Sales’s wholesale drug purchases from Cruz. The purchase prices were $20,000 per kilo of cocaine and $90,000 per kilo of heroin. The prices had never varied, although the amounts bought by De Sales certainly had.
     De Sales’s first buy from Cruz had been the previous July, three kilos of cocaine and one kilo of heroin, and that had been the smallest buy. De Sales had bought from Cruz at least once a month, and the number of kilos bought had increased with each purchase as De Sales had neutralized his competition while cornering the Bedford-Stuyvesant street-level drug market. Justice had done the math, another favor to the police, and the totals were at the bottom of each column. In thirteen separate transactions, including De Sales’s last fatal purchase, he had bought from Cruz 20 kilos of heroin and 134 kilos of cocaine for a total of $4,480,800.
     McKenna had never been in Narcotics, and he knew that Cisco had left Narcotics twelve years before, so he was pretty sure that neither of them had an exact idea on the wholesale prices of cocaine and heroin. However, after De Sales had cut, diluted, and processed his products for street sales, he must have had himself a narcotics operation that generated many millions in profits.
     Messing’s thoughts were running in the same vein. “Can you give me a fairly accurate estimate on how much De Sales was making?” he asked.
     “No, but I’ll find out for you,” McKenna replied.
     “And an estimate on how much Cruz made from his dealings with De Sales?”
     “You get everything today, I promise,” McKenna said. “You’re gonna have yourself a blockbuster story tomorrow, and I have a feeling your pieces are gonna be a continuing series.”
     “Because Justice is gonna hit again?”
     It was Cisco who answered. “Sure he is, and soon.”
     Messing was polite enough to put his hand to his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his smile. “Yeah, I know, Phil. Great news for you, but a very bad scene for us,” McKenna said. “Is the Post gonna play the vigilante angle right away?”
     “You betcha, and you just said tomorrow’s one-word headline. VIGILANTE, fourteen point, probably in red.”
     “How you gonna treat us?”
     “You mean you two, or the department?”
     “The department.”
     “How you gonna treat me?” Messing asked.
     “As long as you keep getting letters, we’ll give you everything you need to keep your story running.”
     “Criminal histories on the victims?”
     “Uh-huh.”
     “Ongoing progress reports on the investigation?”
     “Uh-huh.”
     “Complete off-the-record picture on anything you don’t want printed?”
     “Uh-huh.”
     “Then, naturally, I’m gonna treat the department as good as I can. Can’t speak for the op-ed people, but I’ll use my influence to keep the criticism to a minimum for as long as I can.”
     “That’s all we can ask for.”
     “You have any idea how long this will go on for?”
     “Off the record?” McKenna asked.
     “Sure.”
     “None whatsoever.”
     “Any idea on who this Justice is?”
     “Still off the record, no, no concrete idea. Have a few theories, but nothing I’m ready to talk about yet.”
     Then McKenna took a minute to examine the photocopy of the envelope. Like the letter, the envelope had been printed in black ink with a computer printer, and, naturally, there was no return address. Then McKenna examined the postmark, Grand Central Station, but the date froze him. The letter had been postmarked July 14, after Cruz had been murdered, but before Justice had killed De Sales and Ramsey.
     McKenna looked to Messing and Cisco. Cisco was sipping his drink and looking at him with a quizzical expression on his face, but Messing was staring out the window with a smile on his lips.
     “Look at your copy of the envelope,” McKenna told Cisco, and Cisco did. He glanced at the address, and McKenna saw him focus on the postmark for a full minute. Then Cisco looked to McKenna, and he was also smiling. “What planning, and what confidence,” he said admiringly. “The cagey bastard mailed Phil all the info on De Sales and Ramsey before he even got around to whacking them.”
     “And before what else?” McKenna asked.
     McKenna was sure Cisco knew, but for some reason Cisco wasn’t answering. Then McKenna looked to Messing, but Messing was still looking through the window, and still smiling.
     “He mailed it before what else?” McKenna repeated, sure that Messing had also already figured it out.
     “Before the story on Cruz’s murder went to press,” Cisco said at last.
     “Meaning?”
     “Meaning he mailed it to Phil before he knew Phil had the byline on the Cruz murder story.”
     “Meaning?” McKenna asked, but then he held up his hand to indicate to Cisco that he shouldn’t answer yet. McKenna then snapped his fingers in front of Messing’s face to get his attention.
     “I know, Brian, and don’t worry about me. We’re way, way off the record here,” Messing said, but he continued looking out the window and smiling.
     McKenna returned his attention to Cisco. “Let’s hear it, smart guy. If he didn’t know yet that Phil would be the one doing the story on the Cruz murder, then why, of all the reporters in the city, did he send his letter to Phil?”
     “Cisco is a very smart guy indeed, so he will give you some food for thought,” Cisco said. “There are a few possibilities to be considered. One: Justice might have put himself in a position near the crime scene that enabled him to see Phil there.”
     “Possible,” McKenna conceded. “But let’s keep in mind that Justice was very busy murdering De Sales and Ramsey the following night, and he needed time to reconnoiter the Classon Hotel and get some sleep in between.”
     “Cisco already has that in his mind,” Cisco said. “Two: Justice is an avid reader of the Post, and he knows his reporters. He therefore anticipated that Phil would naturally be assigned to cover any murder as big as the Cruz murder turned out to be.”
     “If he knew Phil was working that day,” McKenna said.
     “An easy matter for him to ascertain. All he had to do was call the Post’s city desk and ask for Phil. He would have been told that Phil was in the field, and he would know just where in the field Phil was.”
     “Fine. We’ll continue to consider that, but let’s get to the third possibility. Let’s assume for a moment that Justice didn’t know Phil would be covering that story when he mailed him the letter that made our Philly Boy the hottest reporter in town. What might one assume from that?”
     “That he likes our Philly Boy.”
     “That he might even be a friend of our Philly Boy?” McKenna asked.
     “Might be.”
     “And who are Philly Boy’s friends?”
     “People like us.”
     “Thank you. Now, let’s go one further. Considering how much inside information he seems to have, where would he be assigned?”
     “Either Narcotics or the Joint Drug Task Force.”
     “Thanks again. So he would be a black man, very strong, very tough, and very smart. Someone on the inside who’s very angry with drug dealers—and let’s not forget to add in that he’s an expert skydiver and an animal lover. Ring any bells?”
     “Except for the black part and the inside part, you just described me.”
     “Yeah, but you have an alibi. Can you think of anyone else you know who might fit that description?”
     “Not at the moment,” Cisco said. “Give me a few minutes to think.” If Cisco thought better while he drank, then he did a lot of hard thinking. He chugged what was left of his beer, and then looked at McKenna. His mouth wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were. “Nobody specific comes to mind, but I don’t know that many people in Narcotics anymore. Thankless job, no-win situation, so it never held my interest.”
     “How about you, Phil?” McKenna asked. “And before you answer, keep in mind that this guy might be someone you know.”
     McKenna was gratified that Messing finally looked at him to answer. “I’ve already run it through my mind. I’ve met thousands of cops and feds through the years, and shared dinners, drinks, and a few good times with many of them, but I don’t know who this guy is. You can take that to the bank.”
     “I believe you, but if he’s a cop or a fed, he knows you,” McKenna stated.
     “Maybe I’ve met him. If so, it slips my mind. But then again, maybe I never have. Maybe he’s just knows me by reputation.”
     “A secret admirer?”
     “I must have a few,” Messing said with a shrug. “Get a lot of nice mail from people who like my style.”
     McKenna was sure there were, but he was also sure that if Justice was a cop or a fed, he had met Messing at one time or another. Maybe at a party or in a bar late at night when Messing was a little under the weather, McKenna reasoned, but it had happened.
     Then that cryptic message from Chipmunk hit McKenna. Is it possible that Chip already knows Justice is a cop or a fed? he wondered. Better yet, is it possible Chip knows him personally? After all, Messing and Chipmunk share many of the same friends—so if Justice knows Messing, there’s a good chance he also knows Chip.
     McKenna looked to the bar, and caught Chipmunk staring at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, then Chip smiled and nodded to McKenna before turning his attention to the customer sitting at the bar in front of him.
     Yeah, Chip knows, but it does me no good. He won’t tell me anything until he’s good and ready, McKenna thought, and he then put that issue out of his mind for the moment. It was time to get on to the next unpleasant piece of business. From his pocket he took the notes Justice had left for the police and the hotel management, and he passed them to Messing.
     Messing read the note to the police once, and then read it out loud. “Stay tuned and stay sharp, because there’s more fun in store. I intend to make the world a better place, and I know how to do it. Catch me if you can.”
     Messing folded up the note and put it in his pocket, and McKenna found the broad smile he was wearing to be particularly annoying. “Phil, this is serious business, isn’t it?” he asked.
     “Much more serious for you than for me, but yeah, it’s serious,” Messing said, still smiling broadly.
     “Then could you please wipe that smile off your face before we go any further?”
     “I’m trying. Believe me, I am,” Messing said, still smiling. “Make you a deal. If he stops, I’ll stop,” he said, nodding at Cisco.
     McKenna looked to Cisco, knowing what he would find. Sure enough, his partner was also smiling, but Cisco at least was making some attempt to put on a somber appearance. His face went from smile to grim to smile to grim, but then he gave up. The smile returned and remained.
     “You realize, don’t you, that our job’s reputation is circling the bowl, and might just get flushed into the sewer over this?” McKenna asked, exasperated.
     That dimmed Cisco’s smile, but it didn’t entirely disappear. “If he’s a cop, it might dim the Job’s reputation in some circles, but with the competent job he’s doing, not in my circle,” he stated. “He’s given himself a mission, taking bloodsucking, murdering, soulless vermin off the street in a fine fashion. That’s a mission we’d all like to undertake—if we were permitted to do it.”
     Cisco stopped to gauge McKenna’s reaction, but all he received was a blank stare. Then he looked to Messing, but Messing had removed himself from the conversation. It appeared he was intently reading Justice’s note to the hotel management, and was much too busy to pay attention to whatever Cisco was saying.
     Cisco returned his attention to McKenna. “All right, Boy Scout, don’t say it,” he said, placing his hand on McKenna’s arm. “We’re sworn to uphold the law, and whoever he is, he’s breaking the law...”
     “Our most serious law,” McKenna said, staring down at Cisco’s hand on his arm. “He’s committing murder, over and over, and he’s gonna continue murdering until we get him.”
     “Actually, he’s stepped on four smart, overstuffed cockroaches who figured nothing bad would ever happen to them, but I guess that’s murder—in a technical sense.”
     McKenna was shocked at Cisco’s statement, and he made no attempt to hide it. What am I facing here? he wondered. Great detective, good man, but where’s his head on this? “Murder in a technical sense? Is there such a lesser category of murder?” he asked, “Or is murder still the unlawful taking of human life, pure and simple?”
     “Don’t get excited, Brian. You’re right,” Cisco said, smiling as he patted McKenna’s arm. “It’s our job to get him, and we will.”
     “So you’re really with me on this?”
     Cisco appeared hurt at the question. “Of course I’m really with you. I’m your partner, and we’ll get him together, doing whatever we have to.”
     McKenna believed, but he wanted to be sure Cisco was operating for the right reasons. “So we’ll get him because he’s a killer, and it’s our job to catch murderers, no matter who they are and who they’re killing?”
     “That’s one way or looking at it, and partially correct.”
     “Partially correct?”
     “That `Catch me if you can’ business didn’t sit well with me. He issued us a challenge, so we’ll answer it, and that will be his undoing.”
     I give up! McKenna thought. Next order of business, and he returned his attention to Messing. “You like that note?” he asked.
     “Love it,” Messing replied. “How much did he leave to cover the `unavoidable’ damages?”
     “Five thousand dollars.”
     “Very nice of him.”
     “Do you intend to portray him in a sympathetic light?”
     “If I don’t do it voluntarily, my bosses will insist I do. Besides murders committed with a twist, there’s a human interest angle brewing here. Justice has given my paper an exclusive of sorts, and he’s gonna double our circulation for as long as this goes on. We’ll go with this story for all it’s worth.”
     “Then while you’re busy picturing him as an errant knight, might you also mention prominently that he’s a robber as well as a murderer.”
     “The drug cash?”
     “Yeah, and he stole plenty of it. By his own admission in his letter to you, he got five hundred forty thousand from De Sales before he killed him. With that kind of cash in hand, is it a big deal if he leaves five thousand to the hotel and three thousand to the security guard if it convinces you to make him a hero in the press?”
     “It’s not just the cash, Brian. If you’re gonna try to convince me he’s just some kind of greedy, robbing bastard who spreads peanuts around to make himself look good, then first tell me why he left the drugs with the bodies?”
     Not the question I wanted to hear, but this Messing is just too sharp, McKenna admitted to himself. If Justice is the greedy bastard I’d like Messing to believe he is, then what reason do I give him to explain why Justice left drugs with a wholesale value of over half a million in the hotel room when a strong guy like him could have just as easily taken both the cash and the money?
     Nothing came to McKenna, and Messing was kind enough to change the subject. “What’s this about three thousand to the security guard?”
     “He left three thousand dollars in his pocket, along with another note.” McKenna passed Messing a copy of the note Justice had left in Clarence DuBois’s pocket. After Messing read it, McKenna told him about the Teddy bear, and next described the scene that had greeted DuBois when he had awoken in that heart-shaped bed next to De Sales, Ramsey, and the blow-up lovers Justice had left with them in unsavory positions.
     “God, I wish I had a picture of that,” Messing said.
     “Why? You work for the Post, not the Enquirer. Your editor would never let it run.”
     “But it would sure look good with the other pictures in my book, the one I’ll be writing when this case is over.”
     “Happy ending?” McKenna asked.
     “Don’t know how happy it’ll make everybody, but you’ll get this guy, sooner or later.”
     McKenna was able to relax for a moment when Brenda brought Messing his next martini and announced that their dinners would be out shortly.
     Messing took a long sip from his drink, and then ended McKenna’s recess. “I’ve been hearing for a while that Gaston Cruz bought a cop or an agent somewhere, in either Narcotics, the FBI. or the DEA,” he said. “Is there a chance that has a bearing on this case?”
     McKenna wasn’t surprised that a man with Messing’s connections knew about the problem, but since Brunette didn’t need the pressure of appearing in the press with two black eyes instead of just one, he had been hoping that Messing didn’t know the problem was connected to Gaston Cruz’s.
     So what do I say to that? McKenna wondered, then decided that the simple truth would have to do. “I don’t know whether or not Cruz’s bought cop or agent has anything to do with this case,” he admitted.
     “Is it something you’re actively looking into?”
     “Not yet.”
     “Why not?”
     It was Cisco who answered. “Let’s get something straight here, Phil. Until this morning, Brian and I were on vacation in Florida. We haven’t had a chance to do much of anything on this yet.”
     “Really? You were called back from vacation to handle this?” Messing asked.
     “No, not handle it. We were called back to assist MacFarlane and Chmil, so they’re the ones you should still be talking to, and they’re the ones who should be getting the ink right now. They’re good, competent people, so use what you learned from us to write nice things about them.”
     McKenna had never expected to hear that statement from Cisco, a man who rarely gave credit to others. Messing also paused for a moment, but then he took the statement in stride. “So how do I characterize our session here?” he asked.
     “Simple. MacFarlane and Chmil were too busy working their cases this afternoon, so the police commissioner elected us to fill you in on what they’ve been doing. However, they won’t be too busy later on, so go get some nice quotes from them.”
     “Will Chmil talk to me?”
     “He will now,” McKenna said. “Tell you everything we’ve told you, and maybe more.”
     “How about Brunette? Will he talk to me?”
     “Not at the moment, but he’s authorized me to give you a statement. That good enough?”
     “Sure.”
     McKenna took out his notepad, ready to read Brunette’s statement, but then he decided against it. Instead, he tore out the page and handed it to Messing.
     Messing had just one question after he read the statement. “Lowlifes? Are you sure he wants to use that?”
     “That’s for the record, Phil. Lowlifes it is, and he sends his regards.”
     Brenda arrived with their orders, and conversation ceased until she left. “Just one more question from me before we dig in,” Messing said. “Off the record, when will you be taking over the case?”
     “You’re not buying that assistants-to-MacFarlane-and- Chmil crap?” Cisco asked.
     “No.”
     “Then off the record, it will be Brian’s case right after Justice hits again.”
     “Which will be when, in your opinion?”
     “Like I told you, soon. Maybe very soon.”
     McKenna had just cut his first piece of steak when his cell phone rang. He knew what it meant when Messing’s cell phone began ringing two seconds later.
     So did Cisco. “Looks like you’re in charge, partner.”
     McKenna didn’t want to compete with Messing’s call while they both received the same message, so he got up and walked to the back of the restaurant before he answered his phone.
     “Where are you?” Sheeran asked.
     “The Wicked Wolf. Where am I going?” McKenna asked.
     “Close. Two-five Precinct. Marginal Street under the FDR Drive. He did it with bombs this time.”
     “Bombs?”
     “Two of them.”
     “How many dead?”
     “Four.”
     “All players?”
     “That’s what it looks like, so far.”
     “Any witnesses?”
     “One. A city sanitation worker was emptying his sweeper under the drive about a block away. He heard the explosions, and saw the action that followed.”
     “Which was?”
     “At least one, and maybe two of them were alive enough after the blasts to offer some resistance. A short gunfight ensued, but your man finished them off with one head-shot apiece. He’s got a laser-sighted pistol, and he knows how to use it.”
     “How long ago did it happen?”
     “About half an hour. It took the first units there a while to sort out the mess and venture a guess about what happened. I’m still getting reports in, but I understand it’s a pretty bloody scene.”
     “You going?” McKenna asked.
     “I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.”
     “Who else is there?”
     “John Monahan.”
     McKenna thought that was the best news Sheeran could have given him. Monahan worked in the Manhattan North Homicide Squad, and he was widely believed to be the one of the best homicide detectives in the city. McKenna knew that everything that could be done by the time he got there would be done, and it would be done correctly.
     Messing was standing and in the process of paying the check by the time McKenna got back to the table, and he looked happy. Cisco, on the other hand, was still seated and eating his steak as quickly as he could, and he didn’t look at all happy.
     “C’mon, Cisco. We gotta go,” McKenna said.
     Cisco took a moment to swallow his food before answering. “I know, I know. I was looking forward to enjoying this meal, but this is all my fault.”
     “Your fault? How?”
     “Because God loves his great detectives. What did I foolishly say when Phil asked me when he was gonna hit again?”
     “Soon, and maybe very soon.”
     “So, so foolish. What I should’ve said was `Right after lunch,’ and maybe God would have arranged that for us.”
     Great detective, good man, but without a doubt a very strange person, McKenna thought.