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  “The difference is that I’m ten weeks into a twenty-two-week rehab and I’m making progress toward a full recovery. You’re, what, eighteen months removed from those slugs in your leg? Are you any better now than you were six months ago? I know that surgery can do wonders, but is that artificial knee ever going to get you back to full speed?”

  Darren was silent. After Mike finished pulling on his socks, his former partner said quietly, “The doctors have to certify that I have a reasonable prospect for recovery in order for me to keep getting the active duty disability payments, and I get checked out every three months. I come in here three times a week and work it. For now, the official report is that there is still a chance, so I’m sticking with that.”

  “Is Marie working at all?”

  “No. She’s taking care of the kids. I’m taking care of my family.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Mike looked at his friend, trying to keep any hint of guilt or pity out of his voice.

  “We’re fine. Fine. But thanks, Mike.”

  “Well, let me know if there’s ever anything I can do to help. I know I’ve been wrapped up in my own shit, and I’m sorry about that. You deserve better from me.”

  “Yeah, well we all deserve better in general. You don’t have to feel guilty, Mike. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “We all make our own decisions, but I could have done things differently.”

  “Me, too,” Darren said softly. “I could have listened to you.”

  “You were never great at that,” Mike said, smiling and reaching out to push Darren’s shoulder, sending him off balance on the narrow bench.

  “You never could stand a student who didn’t do exactly what you said, you old coot.”

  “Hey, I think that’s now a racial slur, so watch it.” The two men both laughed. They left the gym and adjourned to a local bar, where they shared a few beers and some memories. Darren picked up the tab. Mike insisted that Darren put an appointment into his phone for Mike to come over for dinner a week from Saturday, when Michelle had a medical society dinner that Mike was anxious to get out of. Darren was happy to give him an excuse.

  Ж Ж Ж

  The next day, Mike dutifully reported to the Hospital for Special Surgery off of York Avenue and 71st Street for his third post-surgery follow-up appointment with his surgeon, Dr. Frank Cordasco, and his chief physical therapy assistant, who was also named Mike. Stoneman arrived at 3:12 for his 3:15 appointment, checked in with the desk on the second floor of the medical associates building, and sat down in a cushy chair, only to be called two minutes later and ushered into the exam room. It always amazed Mike how incredibly efficient HSS was about getting patients in on schedule and out quickly. It was by far the most on-time medical office he had ever been to.

  Mike, the physical therapy guru, manipulated Mike’s left arm, had him reach behind his back, had him push down and up against Mike’s hand strength, and lifted his arm to test his range of motion. “You’re doing great so far,” Mike the therapist said. “Keep up the sessions and the exercises and you’ll be shooting bad guys again in no time.”

  Then Dr. Cordasco came in and repeated most of the same manipulations and tests. He smiled warmly at Mike and asked how he was feeling. Mike, who had stared down mob bosses and gang leaders, always felt a little bit in awe of the man who had reconstructed his shoulder and somehow (Mike thought it might have been with a magic wand) put him back together. Mike thanked him repeatedly and they shook hands. The doctor was with him less than five minutes, but he left Mike feeling confident about his prognosis.

  On his way down the hallway to Dr. Cordasco’s office to make his next follow-up appointment, he passed by the office of Dr. David Altchek, the team physician for the New York Mets. Mike was not entirely surprised to see a very tall, golden-haired figure emerging from that office as he approached. The guy looked like a Norse god, with broad shoulders and an obviously well-muscled body. His long hair was tied into a tight bun at the back of his head. Mike thought hard, then as casually as he could manage, said, “Hey, Thor, shouldn’t you be in Florida?”

  Noah Syndergaard, starting pitcher for the Mets, turned toward Mike and returned the greeting. “Hey.” Syndergaard stared at Mike for a moment with a puzzled look on his face, as if trying to figure out if he knew the guy in front of him. Then, a look of recognition dawned. “I know you. You’re that cop dude from the newspaper. I remember – you took out that crazy guy, the . . . the . . . the Righteous Assassin, they called him. Yeah – I remember. Nice job, Sir. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “Detective Mike Stoneman,” Mike said, extending his right hand. The pitcher engulfed Mike’s hand in his own and gave a firm shake. Mike liked to think he had a strong hand, but this guy’s paw was like a rock. “Nice to meet you,” Mike said meekly. “I hope you’re not here because of any problems – the team needs you this season.”

  “Oh, no, man. Just a routine check-up. I’m good. Heading back to Port St. Lucie this afternoon.”

  “Great to hear,” Mike said as he extracted his hand and stepped back a pace. “I hear this kid, Alonso, is really good.”

  “Oh, way yeah, man. He’s a beast. And my man Familia is back. Our pen is going to be awesome!”

  “I hope so. You deserve to win twenty this year.”

  “Cool. Well. See you around, Dude,” Syndergaard said, then he turned and strode down the hall toward the waiting area and exit, covering the ground with huge strides. Mike whistled softly and marveled at how big the guy looked in person.

  Mike made his appointment while looking around at an array of football jerseys mounted in shadow-box frames on the walls. All of them bore inscriptions thanking Dr. Cordasco for repairing the injured players’ bodies and allowing them to have successful careers. Mike hoped the same would apply to him, but lamented that not every injury could be fully repaired. Darren’s shattered knee had been replaced, but unlike Mike’s labrum, it was gone and would never be as good as new again.

  Chapter 13 – Lower Decks

  Friday, March 1

  UNLIKE CHRISTINE BARKER’S DEATH, which was only probably a homicide, the murder of bodega owner Raul Rosario was unquestionably a homicide. And while Jason and Ray had no clear suspects in the Barker case, they knew exactly who they were looking for in the Rosario investigation. They didn’t know his real name, or how to find him, but they had witnesses who would recognize him if they saw him again. This was an old-fashioned manhunt, with very little mystery involved. Of course, hunting a man when you have no name or address in a city of ten million people is not exactly easy, even when you have the resources of the NYPD.

  Ray and Jason had been working on it for three weeks, without any success. There was an all-points bulletin out for the man, along with an artist’s sketch compiled from the joint memories of all the people on the scene in the Bronx, plus Luis Rosario and Manuel Hwong. But, short of a beat cop randomly pulling the guy over or arresting him on some unrelated crime, it was a needle-in-a-haystack chance of stumbling onto him.

  Jason and Ray both thought that shaking down local businessmen and using their stores as fronts for the distribution of drugs and for laundering their money sounded like a mob operation. The most likely suspects were connected to the Gallata crime family, which had a hammer lock on that kind of activity, along with prostitution and illegal gambling. The theory was bolstered by fact that the three large men with no recorded employment history who had been arrested after the Webster Avenue shoot-out all had separate lawyers, who were blocking them from providing any useful information. The firm that employed the lawyers was headed by an elderly former judge, reputedly the consiglieri for Mickey “Slick Mick” Gallata, the former figurehead of the family. Slick Mick had been abducted and left in the tiger pit at the Bronx Zoo the previous summer. Since then, the organization had been in some disarray, but the various lieutenants and foot soldiers within the Gallata family had kept the wheels turning while the men
at the top jockeyed for position. The end game was still opaque to the cops, but the smart money was on Slick Mick’s youngest son, Alberto, known as “Fat Albert.” The nickname had stuck long before Bill Cosby was exposed as a sexual predator. It was too late to change, unless Alberto decided to lose a few hundred pounds to negate the moniker, which didn’t seem likely.

  The problem for Jason and Ray was that there were already two separate task forces, one from the NYPD and one from the FBI, investigating and monitoring the activities of the Gallata organization. Two more cops with a separate agenda mucking around in the neighborhood was not a popular idea. The two task forces already had trouble coordinating their efforts without stepping on each other’s toes. Jason had circulated the sketch of their guy to the city task force and asked them to ID him. The city cops were supposed to pass it along to the feds. There was more politics involved than police work, in Jason’s opinion.

  There was not a lot more for Jason and Ray to do on the Rosario case, so they were working their other files. A week later, they were no closer to closing the Christine Barker case than to finding “Ricky.”

  “I can’t believe that this guy’s mug isn’t pinned to some cork board somewhere,” Ray said as he paced around Jason’s desk. “These guys have video surveillance on Fat Albert and his goons, and they have diagrams and charts of everyone they think might be part of the operation. This guy has to be up there somewhere, even if he’s a low-level bag man.”

  “I know,” Jason agreed. “It makes no sense. If we had another line on the bastard, we’d take it. Did you get the files on the other dead women?”

  “No. They never came in.”

  “That’s strange. What did Sophie say about them?”

  “Who’s Sophie?” Ray asked.

  “Never mind. I’ll go check on them.”

  Jason went down to the records room to talk with Sophie Lafontaine. There were other Black cops around the precinct building, but all of them were lower down in the chain of command from Jason. He could talk to them, but he was wary about appearing too cozy with the beat cops just because they were Black. Sophie, however, was different. For one thing, she had thirty years on the force. She didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thought and she pitched the shit to all the higher-ranked officers without regard to their status or race. For another thing, there were seldom any other people down in the records dungeon, so any conversation was confidential and Sophie kept secrets better than anyone. Jason had taken to using her as a sounding board.

  “Hey, Beautiful!” Jason called out when he saw her sitting on her high stool behind the records counter. Sophie’s face looked like she could be an aging Hollywood starlet. She had high cheekbones that were always well rouged, round lips covered with bright red paint, and oval eyes accented with blue and violet shadow and black eyeliner curved at the edges. Her black hair was pulled into a tight swirl that tilted slightly to her right side. She could change into an evening dress, put on dangling earrings, and pass for a fashion model.

  Sophie broke into a broad smile, exposing her perfect white teeth. “Well, lookie here,” she boomed, her voice echoing down the empty concrete hallway. She was born in Jamaica, and even after four decades living in New York, she still retained an island accent. “If it ain’t the big shot homicide detective coming down to get his shiny loafers dirty.”

  “Now, Sophie, you know damned well that there isn’t a speck of dust down here in your domain.”

  Sophie laughed. “Well, you got me there, Detective Dickson. So, to what do I owe the honor of your illustrious presence?”

  “I need some files and a reality check,” Jason said as he strode up to the counter, put his elbow on the ancient wooden surface, and leaned in toward Sophie.

  “Well, once I give you the files, I’ll lose your attention, so let’s start with the other one.”

  Jason straightened up before explaining the situation. “We have a murder suspect. We have what we think is a very good sketch of the guy. I’ve seen it and I saw him myself, and the sketch is spot on. We’re pretty sure he’s associated with the Gallata organization, working as the front man for a shake-down and money laundering operation in the Bronx, so we gave the sketch to the NYPD task force that’s monitoring the Gallata gang. We figured it would be a few days and they’d get back to us with his name, but it’s been two weeks and radio silence. Does that make any sense to you?”

  Sophie looked Jason in the eyes, then furrowed her painted-on eyebrows. “Detective, you’re a smart man, right? You’re well educated, yes?”

  “Yes,” Jason replied as if being called upon by his third-grade teacher to recite a simple arithmetic question.

  “So, what does it seem like to you, huh? Either the man is not part of Fat Albert’s crew, or the cops on the task force know who he is, but they’re not telling you. Am I right?”

  “That’s what I figure,” Jason confirmed.

  “What do you think is more likely?”

  “That they’re not telling me, but that doesn’t really make any sense.”

  Sophie took on a disapproving look, as if she thought Jason was missing something obvious. “What would make it make sense?”

  “It only makes sense if somebody is trying to suppress the information – trying to protect him. But he’s wanted for a very high-profile murder. He’s not some kingpin. He’s a runner – he’s working the street and shaking down the local businessmen himself. He’s not high enough in the organization to be worth protecting.”

  “Unless?” Sophie prompted.

  “Unless . . . ” Jason started, then stopped. “Unless the shake-down operation is a key part of some current sting and they don’t want to disrupt anything until they make a bust. Or something like that.”

  “Now, Detective, was that so hard?” Sophie folded her arms on top of her bosom and smiled at Jason. “I think maybe without Detective Stoneman, you’re losing your magic touch.”

  “Who ever said I had a magic touch?” Jason asked, genuinely curious.

  “I swear sometimes, Detective, you don’t see the water when you’re standing by the ocean. Don’t you know how much Captain Sully sings your praises all the time, like he’s the big hero ‘cause he picked you and didn’t he make such a sensational choice? The mayor says you were the one who sniffed out the Righteous Assassin. He says you were the one who tracked down that white guy who was raping and killing the Black prostitutes. You’re a superstar, Honey. Of course, some of us know that Detective Stoneman should take some of that credit, but he’s too modest to steal your spotlight. So now, with your mentor on the sidelines, everyone is watching to see if you can keep it up on your own.”

  “I’m not on my own,” Jason responded meekly. “I have a temporary partner.”

  “Sure, Darlin’, but now you’re the experienced end of the partnership. You gotta drive the bus now, so make sure you steer carefully.”

  “Thanks, Sophie,” Jason said, turning away from the counter.

  “Hold on, there, Mister Genius.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you remember? There was something about some files?”

  Jason smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course. Yes. Thanks. I would have been back before I got to the stairs. It’s those files Ray asked for last week. The three dead addicts. They’re related – well, they may be related – to the woman we fished out of the river three weeks ago, Christine Barker.”

  “Right,” Sophie said, reaching under her counter and pulling out a large three-ring binder, which she flipped open to a page marked with a bright orange tab. She ran her finger down the page until she found the entries she was looking for.

  “You still keep those records in longhand?”

  “I enter everything in the computer, too,” Sophie said. “I just like havin’ my own file. I don’t trust those machines. Nobody can hack my book,” she said, proudly patting the heavy volume on the counter. “Now, there were three requests here. Two of the files were archiv
ed downtown to central storage. Those files were closed. I sent that request down on February 19 and that usually comes back in two or three days, so it should be here by now, but it hasn’t come in. I’ll call down and check on that for you when we’re done. Now, the other one was for a file from the one-hundred-eighth precinct in Queens, so that shouldn’t have been a big deal, but I got a note here that the clerk there couldn’t find it. She’s still looking for it.”

  Jason frowned. “So, three files requested, and we got zero?”

  “It looks that way. I don’t know how other clerks manage their files, but I can tell you that wouldn’t be happenin’ here in my room.” Sophie flashed a defiant smile. “Sorry, Honey. I’ll keep trying for you.”

  “Okay,” Jason said, slowly turning to leave the area. “Let me know if you hear back on any of those files.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, Detective.”

  Chapter 14 – Alla Famiglia

  Saturday, March 2

  MIKE CLIMBED UP THE THREE STEPS to the porch of Darren’s home. The Queens neighborhood was lined with attached houses, each sharing walls with its neighbors, and each sporting a tiny patch of grass between the front porch and the sidewalk. The façade of each home was painted in a different bright color, giving each a distinctive appearance and mood. Darren’s house was a conservative tan, with darker brown trim and a natural maple-wood door. A cop’s house. An iron railing, painted green, prevented visitors from falling off the three-foot high concrete stoop. As he paused at the doorbell, Mike could smell the sauce simmering on the stove inside. When Darren opened the door, Mike’s nose was treated to deep aromas – garlic, tomato, and fresh bread. He started salivating immediately.

  “Hey, Partner!” Darren said loudly enough for Marie to hear in the kitchen. “C’mon in.” Darren stepped aside to allow Mike to enter.

  He looked around at the familiar living room, crowded with chairs, a sofa, and bookcases jammed with photos and mementos of all types. A faded oriental rug formed a huge circle in the middle of the floor, on which a glass-topped coffee table sat, holding an assortment of magazines and the TV remote control. It was a room very much lived in and looked almost exactly the same as Mike remembered from his last visit, and many before that one. A large crucifix hung on the wall above a fireplace that clearly had not been used for fire in a long time. The mantle was awash in more family photos and a few Christmas ornaments that either lived there year-round or just had not been put away yet.