“She’s Italian, Joe, but a terrific girl.”
I convinced him that Sam was safely out of the way. After turning it over in his mind, Neary said, “Good. Good. In fact, Joe, give him a call over at the 107th and tell him he’s to stay with the Porsche. He’s not to let it out of his sight.”
“He’s probably on his way back here by now, Tim.”
Tim smiled tightly. “Good. The minute he gets here, tell him to turn his ass around and get back to the Porsche. The son-of-a-bitch.” Then, just in case, he asked, “You don’t think the car has any connection to the case, do you, Joe?”
“At this point, I doubt it. But someone used a car to carry those bodies over to Peck Avenue. While Jefferson is typing up the girl’s statement, his partner is checking out how and where she spent the night. I’d say she rings true.”
“We gotta keep right on top of this case, Joe. You realize that, don’t you?” For about the third time in three minutes, Tim checked his watch. “If we don’t wind this thing up fast and clean, that bastard upstairs could replace me, Joe. He could justify it, and how the hell would that look in my credentials? Getting bounced over a headline case could screw me up, but good.” Tim stood up, swung around and kicked his wastebasket. It was metal and the ringing sound lasted for about fifteen seconds. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned around to me.
“We’re going upstairs in about ten minutes, Joe, to brief him. From what’s been coming in all day, this Keeler dame is a flat-out tramp. If her husband didn’t help her, and if she didn’t have her car last night, the chances are that the guy who helped her is someone listed in her pink book, right?” He rubbed some coins together inside his pocket and whistled tunelessly. Then, “According to the neighbors, Keeler hardly spent any time at all with her kids. This elderly woman—Mrs. Silverberg?—practically raised them from the time they were born. I want you to talk to Mrs. Silverberg first thing tomorrow, Joe. She’s at the Long Island Jewish Hospital. She can probably give you the lowdown on the little mother and some of her playmates.” His eyes got that glazed look again, then, as though talking to himself, he said, “No one else could have done it. It had to be the mother.”
Tim turned and faced the traffic outside his window on Queens Boulevard and seemed to go into a trance. I glanced absently at the collection of black-framed photographs that took up most of the wall over the green leather couch that Tim’s wife had bought him for a birthday present. Most of the pictures were of Tim shaking hands with someone or other who was in the process of presenting Tim an award in the shape of an engraved brass plaque mounted on wood. Most of the awards were hanging along the back wall of Tim’s office over the long narrow conference table.
There were a few familiar faces in the pictures besides Tim’s: Bobby Kennedy standing off to one side as Tim accepted the Irishman-of-the-Year Award from some hearty-looking Irishman back in the early sixties; Tim and his wife, Catherine, flanking stocky Richard Daley (they had been engaged then and Catherine had been a delegate to Chicago in 1968; the occasion of the picture had been some Communion breakfast in New York). Daley’s expression was murderous, his eyes glinting and tough, and both Tim and Catherine looked reverent and impressed.
The only outsized memento was the framed, yellowing front page of the old New York Mirror, the thick black headline saying HERO ROOKIES SAVE 10 KIDS IN B’KLYN BLAZE. There we were on the front page, Tim and me, the hero rookies, our faces younger and more innocent than either of us had ever been, handing over the last-saved kid into the arms of an ambulance attendant. Three of the kids died subsequently, but we both got first-class commendations anyway. It was that particular incident that more or less determined the direction of
I convinced him that Sam was safely out of the way. After turning it over in his mind, Neary said, “Good. Good. In fact, Joe, give him a call over at the 107th and tell him he’s to stay with the Porsche. He’s not to let it out of his sight.”
“He’s probably on his way back here by now, Tim.”
Tim smiled tightly. “Good. The minute he gets here, tell him to turn his ass around and get back to the Porsche. The son-of-a-bitch.” Then, just in case, he asked, “You don’t think the car has any connection to the case, do you, Joe?”
“At this point, I doubt it. But someone used a car to carry those bodies over to Peck Avenue. While Jefferson is typing up the girl’s statement, his partner is checking out how and where she spent the night. I’d say she rings true.”
“We gotta keep right on top of this case, Joe. You realize that, don’t you?” For about the third time in three minutes, Tim checked his watch. “If we don’t wind this thing up fast and clean, that bastard upstairs could replace me, Joe. He could justify it, and how the hell would that look in my credentials? Getting bounced over a headline case could screw me up, but good.” Tim stood up, swung around and kicked his wastebasket. It was metal and the ringing sound lasted for about fifteen seconds. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned around to me.
“We’re going upstairs in about ten minutes, Joe, to brief him. From what’s been coming in all day, this Keeler dame is a flat-out tramp. If her husband didn’t help her, and if she didn’t have her car last night, the chances are that the guy who helped her is someone listed in her pink book, right?” He rubbed some coins together inside his pocket and whistled tunelessly. Then, “According to the neighbors, Keeler hardly spent any time at all with her kids. This elderly woman—Mrs. Silverberg?—practically raised them from the time they were born. I want you to talk to Mrs. Silverberg first thing tomorrow, Joe. She’s at the Long Island Jewish Hospital. She can probably give you the lowdown on the little mother and some of her playmates.” His eyes got that glazed look again, then, as though talking to himself, he said, “No one else could have done it. It had to be the mother.”
Tim turned and faced the traffic outside his window on Queens Boulevard and seemed to go into a trance. I glanced absently at the collection of black-framed photographs that took up most of the wall over the green leather couch that Tim’s wife had bought him for a birthday present. Most of the pictures were of Tim shaking hands with someone or other who was in the process of presenting Tim an award in the shape of an engraved brass plaque mounted on wood. Most of the awards were hanging along the back wall of Tim’s office over the long narrow conference table.
There were a few familiar faces in the pictures besides Tim’s: Bobby Kennedy standing off to one side as Tim accepted the Irishman-of-the-Year Award from some hearty-looking Irishman back in the early sixties; Tim and his wife, Catherine, flanking stocky Richard Daley (they had been engaged then and Catherine had been a delegate to Chicago in 1968; the occasion of the picture had been some Communion breakfast in New York). Daley’s expression was murderous, his eyes glinting and tough, and both Tim and Catherine looked reverent and impressed.
The only outsized memento was the framed, yellowing front page of the old New York Mirror, the thick black headline saying HERO ROOKIES SAVE 10 KIDS IN B’KLYN BLAZE. There we were on the front page, Tim and me, the hero rookies, our faces younger and more innocent than either of us had ever been, handing over the last-saved kid into the arms of an ambulance attendant. Three of the kids died subsequently, but we both got first-class commendations anyway. It was that particular incident that more or less determined the direction of
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