Nightbird Page 2

  From the open station-house window Danny could hear the madhouse that was morning in Mid-Town North. A convoy of pissed-off hookers shuffled past the desk, heading for the front door. The smell of cheap perfume infused the air as the gang-chained hookers yanked each other sideways down the three front steps. They knew the drill and moved directly across the sidewalk, stepping up into the waiting wagon.

  “Y’all waiting for me, sugah?” said a tall black girl in thigh-high boots and a red leather micro-mini. The line slowed as those with the highest heels and tightest skirts carefully negotiated the stretch up onto the van’s metal steps. “You gorgeous baby, you stay right there till I get back. You hear me?”

  Danny set his coffee on the window ledge and stared at his paper.

  “Ain’t that lovable, he’s blushing,” the woman said. “When I get back I’m going suck that pretty boy’s dick until he screams, ‘Lu Ann, Lu Ann, I love you!’ I am, sugah baby, I am. You wait right there.”

  Danny ignored her and kept his eyes glued to the newspaper. The front page consisted of two pictures, side by side, underneath the headline. One picture was a studio head shot of the beautiful Gillian; the other was a long-range photo of the Broadway Arms. A curving arrow, superimposed on the eighteen-story building, traced the path of Gillian’s descent. From a terrace on the top floor she traveled past a billboard of an immense sweating navel—an ad for suntan products—past the marquee of a shuttered porn theater—to the roof of a preacher’s van.

  Suddenly the paper flew out of Danny’s hands and he was spun around, almost yanked out of his loafers by the force of two meaty hands. Blood drained from his face as he was spread-eagled against the wall, his hands yanked behind his back. The metal teeth of handcuffs clicked through their ratchets.

  “We got a collar here, pally,” Joe Gregory said. “Lewd and lascivious leering at an official New York City hospitality hostess. Wadda ya got to say for yourself, Romeo?”

  This can’t be legit, Danny thought as the Egg McMuffin he’d wolfed down earlier returned for a bitter encore in his throat. Maybe they got their wires crossed. He hadn’t quite heard what Gregory said. It happened so fast. He turned his face away from the wall, far enough to see his uncle standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets… smiling. Anthony Ryan wouldn’t be smiling if this were legit. Then he winked at Danny. It definitely wasn’t legit. Just Joe Gregory’s sick idea of fun. Danny caught his breath and in that instant went from frightened to angry. He twisted around to face Gregory.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, asshole?” Danny yelled. He appealed to his uncle. “Please call this lunatic off.”

  “I never interfere with due process,” Anthony Ryan said.

  “This is my neighborhood, for Christ’s sake. I live here.”

  Danny actually lived two blocks from the precinct, on West Fifty-sixth, in a studio with a broken Murphy bed.

  “Taking the Lord’s name in vain in proximity to an official police station,” Gregory said. “The charges continue to mount.”

  The hookers begged Gregory to put Danny into their van. Cops on the sidewalk offered their opinions as to where he should go.

  “Why don’t we just let him ride to Central Booking in the van,” Ryan said. “I hear he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

  “Yeah,” Gregory said. “But then the media might criticize us. That might be sexual harassment, or some kind of ethical faux pas.”

  “Right,” Ryan said. “We wouldn’t want an ethical faux pas on our records.”

  Joe Gregory steered Danny by the back of his shirt all the way to Ninth Avenue. Apparently not satisfied that Danny was handcuffed behind his back in broad daylight, Gregory would jostle him every few steps so that he wobbled drunkenly. Danny never understood what his uncle saw in an idiot like Joe Gregory. And they’d been partners forever. Go figure.

  “Okay, joke’s over,” Danny said. “Let’s act like adults now.”

  “Oh, this guy deserves a beating, pally,” Gregory said. “Just say the word. It would make my day.”

  “Great,” Danny said. “Now he thinks he’s Dirty Harry.”

  “I’d eat Dirty Harry for breakfast,” Gregory said. “By the way, how soon can I expect to see this police brutality story in Manhattan magazine?”

  “Soon as you find someone who can read it to you,” Danny snapped.

  “Maybe you can pick me up some comp copies,” Gregory continued, pulling his handcuff key from his pocket. “I’d like one for my brutality scrapbook, one for my false arrest scrap-book. Couple others… send to my loved ones. They’ll be so proud.”

  When they reached Ryan’s car Danny felt the handcuffs fall away. His wrists ached from just that short time of steel against bone. He understood why more civilian complaints were filed over too tight handcuffs than any other police act.

  “See… you… there, pally,” Gregory said, pointing to his eyes, then to Ryan. Cops used signals, shrugs, and nods like a private language, their business not meant for the ears of civilians, especially reporters.

  Joe Gregory tousled Danny’s hair, then walked away north on Ninth Avenue. Gregory was a big meaty guy, the definition of burly. Pedestrians swung wide around him as he lumbered up the hill, arms hanging, the backs of his huge hands facing forward. Planet of the Apes, Danny thought. Pure Neanderthal. Only once, when he reached the corner, did Joe Gregory turn around to flash his red-faced, shit-eating grin.

  “Funny guy, your partner,” Danny said, rubbing his wrists. “He have an overwhelming need to be an asshole, or what?”

  “Actually, he likes you.”

  “He’s got some way of showing affection. I bet women are lining up to go out with that guy.”

  “He was just kidding with you, Danny.”

  “No, he wasn’t. It’s the Todd Walker story. That’s what that shit was all about. Because I wrote a negative piece about a cop. Gregory’s letting me know I’ve stepped over the thin blue line.”

  “Don’t overanalyze him, please.”

  “I’m not. I don’t care what he thinks. I’m proud of that story. Todd Walker was a bad cop. He should have been convicted, and you know it. He beat that kid for no reason, pure and simple. Beat him half to death. For what… because the kid called him a fag in Spanish?”

  “Todd Walker was a dirtbag,” Ryan said. “And most cops, including Joe Gregory, think he got off way too light. My partner just has a thing about seeing our dirty laundry in public.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll bet he has a pile of his own dirty laundry.”

  Ryan gave Danny a look. A look he knew meant “Don’t be a wiseass, nobody likes a wiseass.” It was his pet peeve with Danny, who claimed he was haunted by the ghost of Groucho Marx whispering wiseass comments in his ear.

  “How did you know I was here?” Ryan said.

  “I called Aunt Leigh. Are you assigned to this case?”

  “It’s officially a Mid-Town North investigation, but it’s high profile, so the chief of detectives wants us to keep a hand in. Plus we were first on the scene.”

  Anthony Ryan stood on the edge of the curb and turned to face foot traffic on Ninth; cops hated to leave their backs exposed. He leaned against his blue Oldsmobile Ninety-eight. The car was a 1990, but new to Ryan. He’d been driving Rip’s 1975 olive green Volvo, but after Rip’s death, he gave it to Danny. The car was such an ugly color, it was simple to find in any parking lot. Rip had nicknamed the car “the olive” and said all he needed was the martini.

  “What were you guys doing in Times Square last night, anyway?” Danny said.

  “Fighting the forces of evil.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “If you must know, we were schmoozing. Gregory was collecting money for the boat ride for Project Children.”

  “Project Children,” Danny said. “Isn’t that the charity that brings delinquents from Northern Ireland over here so they can swap notes with our delinquents?”

  Ryan smiled. Danny knew he could never be angry
with him for long. That was the smile he remembered whenever he and Rip got in trouble. The smile and the calmness.

  “Okay, what is it, Danny?” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s about Gillian Stone.”

  “Information from the press. That’s a switch.”

  The smell of baking bread wafted up from an ancient brick oven in the basement beneath the Laundromat. An old woman in a checked raincoat stood in the sun outside the OTB, chin tilted upward, studying a racing tout sheet.

  “The Post says Gillian was wearing a long white nightgown,” Danny said. “Is that accurate?”

  “What if it is?”

  “Gillian Stone never wore a nightgown that I know of. Go through her clothes, I bet you don’t find one. She slept in panties and T-shirt. If anything at all.”

  “You slept with her?”

  “Gillian and I went together for almost a year. We broke up about six months ago.”

  “Did I know this?” Ryan said.

  “You kidding—tell the family? You know how they are. ‘When are you getting married?’ When this, when that. It’s all I would hear.”

  “But the bottom line is you haven’t seen her in months, right?”

  “Until last night. I was with her last night.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ryan said, and he looked up at the sky. “That’s why you freaked out when Gregory cuffed you. Jesus Christ. Get in the car, Danny.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Don’t say another word, please,” Ryan said. “Just get in the goddamned car.”

  3

  Anthony Ryan made a hard right off Ninth Avenue and drove toward the river. He wanted no part of the streets around the precinct; too many cops were coming and going, observing, overhearing. He knew all the clichés about cop paranoia, but still he’d move the conversation to a safer venue. Never take chances with your own. He’d lost a son, he wasn’t about to lose Danny. His mind raced in a thousand directions, exploring elaborate escape routes legal and otherwise. Just in case.

  “Start from the beginning,” he said as he backed the Olds against the piling that stopped it from rolling into the Hudson. He cut the engine and faced his nephew. Fifty yards to their left tourists boarded the Circle Line ferry.

  “You mean when I first met her?” Danny said.

  “No, let’s focus on last night.”

  “I want to help out on this. Anything I can do, please. Let me help.”

  “Last night, Danny. Did you run into her somewhere? Was it a phone call? Stick to the specifics of last night.”

  “Okay, last night. Well, I hadn’t even talked to her in maybe four months. Not a word. Last night my phone rings about seven-fifteen, seven-thirty. It’s Gillian, and she’s upset. Wants to see me.”

  “She called you from where?”

  “Home, I guess. I don’t know for sure.”

  Ryan pulled a small leather case out of his jacket pocket—his personal notebook, containing index cards, not the official NYPD notebook. He wasn’t ready for anything written that might become public record. He set a stack of three-by-five cards on the seat and motioned for Danny to continue. He’d check the LUDs, get the exact time on all local calls from Gillian’s phone.

  “She said she wanted me to meet her in Caramanica’s,” Danny said. “It’s a bar on Third Avenue.”

  “Why Third Avenue when you both live on the West Side?”

  “The Cheers syndrome. She liked to be in a place where everyone knew her name. She used to live around the corner from the place. Models, jocks, yuppies, wannabes, rich assholes.”

  “We don’t have time to editorialize, Danny. Please. Who arrived first?”

  “I got there about eight-twenty, she was already there.”

  “What was her mood?”

  “Angry, but not foaming at the mouth. More of a quiet anger; subdued, actually. Sad may be a better word. She looked tired, too.”

  Danny said they talked for more than an hour, Gillian doing almost all of it. Whispering, with an agitated, husky intensity. She left alone, shortly after ten P.M. Grabbed a cab outside as Danny watched through the window.

  “Did you notice anything on the cab?” Ryan said.

  “Don’t you want to know why she called me?”

  “A medallion number would be nice,” Ryan said, ignoring him. Checking his watch.

  “It was yellow, that’s all I know.”

  “Did you see or hear from Gillian after that?”

  “No,” Danny said softly. “Not until I heard her name on the radio this morning.”

  A sudden crash made Danny jump. A UPS truck rear-ended a baby Mercedes whose driver had stopped in the middle of Twelfth Avenue to gawk at the USS Intrepid.

  “You need to call that in or something?” Danny said, pointing at the instant traffic jam.

  “Nobody’s hurt. The Mercedes has a phone if he wants help.”

  “I thought maybe you had some official duty here. Some regulation to follow, rule eighteen point five or something.”

  “Let’s concentrate on this right now. Was Caramanica’s crowded?”

  “Jammed. All the beautiful people du jour. Sorry, editorializing.”

  “It’s okay,” Ryan said, starting to relax a little. “I can see there’s no stopping you.” He rolled down the car window. Water slapped against the pilings beneath them. “So then some of those beautiful people saw Gillian leave alone. And beautiful witnesses can verify that you stayed behind?”

  “Absolutely. I stayed to watch the last inning of the Mets game. Maybe another twenty minutes.”

  “Did you go straight home after that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How?”

  “Cabbed it. All by my lonesome. Got home in time to catch the news at eleven.”

  “What were you catching at one A.M.?”

  “Nothing but zees. Snug in my bed.”

  “All by your lonesome?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. It happens.”

  “Yeah, but for once it’s not a good thing.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “No suspects, Danny. It’s a suicide, remember.”

  “Then why the third degree?”

  “To make sure you’re out from under.”

  “Out from under what?”

  Ryan didn’t know exactly what. Probably nothing. It was too complicated to explain. Just an instinctive reaction to protect someone he loved.

  “There’s more to this, isn’t there,” Danny said. “It’s not a suicide, is it.”

  “I thought you came here today to give information.”

  “The minute you finish your interrogation, I’ll be glad to give you everything.”

  “It’s not an interrogation. I want you to understand that another detective will be running the show.”

  “I thought you said you were working this?”

  “Not after what you just told me. So if you need me to do anything for you, let me know immediately. While there’s still time to maneuver.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Danny said, wondering what his uncle could possibly do if he was involved. What maneuvering room could there be?

  “Good,” Ryan said. “Good.”

  “I can give you a solid suspect in this case. This producer, Trey Winters. He’s a big mucky-muck on Broadway.”

  “I know who he is,” Ryan said, putting the car in gear.

  “That scumbag had something to do with this, Uncle Anthony. I know it.”

  “Save it for a few minutes. We’re going up to her apartment.”

  With the window open Ryan could feel heat rising from the blacktop, warning that the day would be another scorcher. He knew his nephew wasn’t finished talking. He hoped he wouldn’t complicate things any further.

  “Last night,” Danny said, “I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I remembered her smell, stupid jokes she’d told me. I kept thinking, She could have called anybody… but she called me. That means someth
ing to me. Then, this morning…”

  Danny Eumont had his mother Nancy’s good looks, her deep brown eyes and fair skin. The same coloring as her sister, Ryan’s wife, Leigh. And their son.

  “Why did you break up with her?” Ryan asked.

  “She dumped me, that’s why. It wasn’t my idea. She dumped me for a part in West Side Story. Her almighty career. She knew taking the role and that apartment had strings.”

  As he waited for the light, Ryan tapped his index cards against the steering wheel. Behind them a jackhammer beat a steady rat-a-tat, breaking concrete to make way for the bright new, user-friendly waterfront. He longed for the old dark, dangerous waterfront and the huge swinging nets filled with crates of Scotch being dropped on traitorous longshoremen; of fights to the death with curved box hooks; of tarantulas lurking in a ton of bananas. It was a less complicated city then, a less complicated time. A time when all Detective Anthony Ryan’s family knew about dark, dangerous places were the things he told them.

  4

  At the corner of Broadway and West Forty-seventh a pair of female uniformed cops from Mid-Town North stood outside the yellow tape that encircled a van with a crushed roof. The body of the young actress had been removed to the morgue hours earlier, but investigators from the Crime Scene Unit were still going through the paces of their particular specialties. Although a uniformed cop’s only job was to secure the scene and protect the evidence, midtown cops knew the moment they set foot on the street in uniform that they became walking information booths: Where is Broadway? “You’re on it.” Where can I find a cheap place to eat? “Jersey.”

  The two attractive rookies were also accustomed to being gawked at by men, particularly foreign men. At the edge of the curb a dark, muscular man carrying a large blue duffel bag inched closer to them, straining to make eye contact. He wore a tight white turtleneck shirt, accentuating wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His black hair and copper brown skin shone as if oiled and polished. The cops ignored him, figuring he’d be gone when the light changed.