keeping her sedated,” Nancy said. “Think it’s gonna be that way for a while. Only way to stop her moving. She’s been stabilized. They fixed the hole in her lung, but she’s back in surgery in . . .” She glanced at her watch. “An hour, maybe an hour and a half, depending on her vital signs and whether there’s any adverse to the transfusion.”
“Just let me know if there’s any significant changes, okay?”
“I might have to call you and tell you she died.”
“Had plenty of those calls before,” Madigan replied.
Nancy left the room.
Madigan took another step toward the bed. If the shot was a through-and-through then the bullet was still in that room somewhere. It would have pancaked for sure, but there’d be enough of it remaining to determine the caliber. He tried to recall the weaponry. He’d carried a Mossberg, had the .44 as backup but he could not remember if he’d fired it in the house. Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. The storage unit would tell them what Madigan wanted them to believe. Williams shot Fulton with a .44; Fulton shot Landry and Williams with a .38. So Williams must have beencarrying the .44, and if a .44 went through the girl and into the wall then Williams must have done it. Neat as paint. That .44 was a lift from a crime scene. Trace that back and it’d wind up somewhere in Harlem, some dealer’s house, the scene of some other killing at some other time. It would never come back to Madigan. Madigan was a ghost.
He began to settle.
He took his cellphone from his pocket and held it up above her face. He snapped the picture, checked it, snapped again. It would have to do. He’d have to have something for people to look at if he was going to trawl around East Harlem and the park asking questions.
Collateral damage. That was the truth of it. That was what he told himself, what he tried to make himself believe.
Sometimes it was just your day to die.
Outside the room Madigan spoke to the uniform again.
“Fingerprints?” Madigan asked.
“They’re being run.”
Madigan shook his head. “They won’t find her that way. She has a mother somewhere, a father too, and someone’s gonna miss her before too long. I’m gonna head back there and start checking up on neighbors and whatever.” He started away, turned back. “You know if her picture was sent over for Missing Persons to chase up?”
“Not a clue.”
“Okay, I can do that too,” Madigan said.
“You want I should call you if anything happens?”
Madigan smiled dryly. “No, I’ll tell you what . . . Why don’t you write me a letter and post it a week from Tuesday?”
The uniform shook his head resignedly. Sometimes the only way they got on was to talk crap to one another.
Madigan handed over his card and walked away.
He didn’t look back.
11
NOBODY’S CITY
I t took the best part of an hour to drive home. He went Triborough, then 278 and 87, all the way up to the stadium before heading east on 161st.
Madigan took the bag of cash from the trunk, the shoes from beneath the driver’s seat, and walked it into the house. He upended the bag onto the kitchen table and looked at the money. He could smell it. It smelled used and dirty, like all money did.
He bundled it back into the bag, and then hurried upstairs. He pulled back the carpet at the end of the upper landing, lifted a floorboard, and pushed the bag down inside the cavity. He reached left, lifted out a small wooden box, and from inside he took a ziplock evidence bag. He tipped a half dozen pills into his palm, put one in his mouth, the rest in his jacket pocket, returned the bag to the box, the box under the floor, the floorboard to its rightful place, and tucked the carpet back against the wall.
He got to his feet and stood silently for a moment. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then went left to his bedroom to get a clean shirt and jacket.
Back downstairs in his makeshift study he switched on the computer and plugged his
“Just let me know if there’s any significant changes, okay?”
“I might have to call you and tell you she died.”
“Had plenty of those calls before,” Madigan replied.
Nancy left the room.
Madigan took another step toward the bed. If the shot was a through-and-through then the bullet was still in that room somewhere. It would have pancaked for sure, but there’d be enough of it remaining to determine the caliber. He tried to recall the weaponry. He’d carried a Mossberg, had the .44 as backup but he could not remember if he’d fired it in the house. Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. The storage unit would tell them what Madigan wanted them to believe. Williams shot Fulton with a .44; Fulton shot Landry and Williams with a .38. So Williams must have beencarrying the .44, and if a .44 went through the girl and into the wall then Williams must have done it. Neat as paint. That .44 was a lift from a crime scene. Trace that back and it’d wind up somewhere in Harlem, some dealer’s house, the scene of some other killing at some other time. It would never come back to Madigan. Madigan was a ghost.
He began to settle.
He took his cellphone from his pocket and held it up above her face. He snapped the picture, checked it, snapped again. It would have to do. He’d have to have something for people to look at if he was going to trawl around East Harlem and the park asking questions.
Collateral damage. That was the truth of it. That was what he told himself, what he tried to make himself believe.
Sometimes it was just your day to die.
Outside the room Madigan spoke to the uniform again.
“Fingerprints?” Madigan asked.
“They’re being run.”
Madigan shook his head. “They won’t find her that way. She has a mother somewhere, a father too, and someone’s gonna miss her before too long. I’m gonna head back there and start checking up on neighbors and whatever.” He started away, turned back. “You know if her picture was sent over for Missing Persons to chase up?”
“Not a clue.”
“Okay, I can do that too,” Madigan said.
“You want I should call you if anything happens?”
Madigan smiled dryly. “No, I’ll tell you what . . . Why don’t you write me a letter and post it a week from Tuesday?”
The uniform shook his head resignedly. Sometimes the only way they got on was to talk crap to one another.
Madigan handed over his card and walked away.
He didn’t look back.
11
NOBODY’S CITY
I t took the best part of an hour to drive home. He went Triborough, then 278 and 87, all the way up to the stadium before heading east on 161st.
Madigan took the bag of cash from the trunk, the shoes from beneath the driver’s seat, and walked it into the house. He upended the bag onto the kitchen table and looked at the money. He could smell it. It smelled used and dirty, like all money did.
He bundled it back into the bag, and then hurried upstairs. He pulled back the carpet at the end of the upper landing, lifted a floorboard, and pushed the bag down inside the cavity. He reached left, lifted out a small wooden box, and from inside he took a ziplock evidence bag. He tipped a half dozen pills into his palm, put one in his mouth, the rest in his jacket pocket, returned the bag to the box, the box under the floor, the floorboard to its rightful place, and tucked the carpet back against the wall.
He got to his feet and stood silently for a moment. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then went left to his bedroom to get a clean shirt and jacket.
Back downstairs in his makeshift study he switched on the computer and plugged his
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