Four Walls Page 21

  But where Aiden's funeral had been small yet intense, Malik Washburne's was large and overwhelming. Besides the huge NYPD contingent, there were also hundreds from the city's African-American community, in particular from the Queens neighborhood of Long Island City, whose lives Washburne had touched. According to one person Mac talked to, the Kinson Rehab Center was down to a skeleton crew today, as everyone who worked there wanted to be present when Malik Washburne was laid to rest.

  Several high-profile African-American New Yorkers were there, including Brigham Sinclair, the NYPD chief of detectives and one of Mac's least-favorite people. Mac found a certain bitter amusement in the fact that Sinclair never once made eye contact with Mac during the entire funeral.

  The eulogy was delivered by the Reverend Michael Burford, who ran the Kinson Rehab Center.

  "The Bible states in the Book of Ephesians: 'Be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ.' Brothers and sisters, Malik Washburne was a good man. He was not a perfect man. In fact, he would be the first to admit to his own failings. He was cursed by the demon alcohol. The devil tempted him, and in a moment of weakness following a vicious tragedy, he fell. But he knew that he fell, and he took the road to redemption willingly. We may look today at Malik's death and see a tragedy, and a horrible accident. But what I see today is what Malik would want us to see: a life given in service to his fellow man. He determined that he would be subject to others and that he would help them. Malik grew up in the Robinsfield Houses, and like so many young African-American men, he was tempted daily by the lure of drugs and vice. He resisted those temptations and became a police officer, in the hopes of serving his community. Later, he handed in his badge and served his community in other ways. But the important thing, brothers and sisters, is that he served. He devoted his life to the aid of others. Even while serving his penance in prison, he served his fellow man. That, brothers and sisters, is how he should be remembered, and that is how he was subject to others. When you go back out into the streets, do not remember that a good man has died. Remember that a good man has lived, and done service to others. Remember that life, not that death, brothers and sisters, and remember to be subject to one another. Malik and I did not share the same faith, and some of you may question my use of the Bible when eulogizing a man of Islam. But whether you believe in Jesus Christ or Mohammad as your prophet, whether or not you believe in God or Allah as the creator of all things, whether or not you call yourself Christian or Muslim, we all can learn from the example that Malik set. Go with God, go with Allah, go with Christ-but go and be subject to one another, as Malik did."

  When the funeral finally let out, Mac came to a decision. He navigated through the throngs of people in an attempt to get to Sinclair. He was going to say hello, shake the man's hand, and wish him condolences on the death of his friend.

  It was a nice thought, but unfortunately there was a phalanx of press converging on Sinclair. Mac didn't relish the idea of his gesture being captured on camera-the idea was to mend fences with Sinclair, not put on a show-so he backed off.

  A reporter from The Village Voice asked Sinclair if he had requested a departmental funeral for his former partner.

  Sinclair snarled, "No comment. Excuse me."

  With that, and with the press chasing at his heels, Sinclair left.

  Mac sighed. Perhaps another time.

  * * *

  Jay Bolton still hated his job, but for the first time he thought it might actually be useful.

  The last week had been pretty miserable. First the two DICs, then the fallout from it. Sure, Jay was one of the COs who gave Washburne a pass on his meds, but what else was he supposed to do? Sergeant Jackson had taken him and a bunch of other guys aside when Washburne first got put in here.

  "We're getting a new guy today," Jackson had said, "name of Malik Washburne. He used to be a cop, name of Gregory Washburne, before he quit, became a towelhead, and started doing the Al Sharpton thing, only without the hair." Jay had laughed at that. "He's one of us, people, and we're gonna do whatever we can to make him as comfy as possible without going overboard. That means we give him a pass on things like meds-the guy's a Muslim, he doesn't do drugs, okay?"

  "Why'd he let them give him the scrip, then?" Jay had asked.

  "He didn't wanna rock the boat."

  Thinking back on it now, Jay realized that the answer was a stupid one. Washburne could've just refused the prescription, but instead he played the system. Which wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for the allergy.

  At the time, though, it had seemed reasonable. And Jay went along with it. What the hell else was he supposed to do? The sergeant told him to do it, and nobody told him otherwise. Jay didn't want to get noticed or cause trouble, he just wanted to show up for work, collect a paycheck every two weeks, and go home and write.

  Captain Russell and Uncle Cal Ursitti had been crawling up everyone's ass for the past two days, grilling people in the interrogation room the same way that those two NYPD guys had when Washburne and Barker died.

  In the end, everyone was getting a letter of reprimand in their personnel file. They couldn't really do much else, since every CO in the place except for Andros was in on it. If they suspended everyone, they'd be screwed. Russell had made noise about staggering the suspensions, but Ursitti apparently convinced him that that was more trouble than it was worth. From what Sullivan told Jay, "Mostly everyone was just trying to be good to someone who was really trying to reform himself. And he'd done a lotta good in the world 'fore he fell off the wagon."

  Jay had privately wondered if the families of the two people Washburne had killed would agree with that sentiment, but he didn't say that out loud.

  Besides, he was grateful. If nothing else came out of this whole stupid thing, he'd finally figured out what his next novel was going to be about. He was going to abandon the current one-it wasn't going anywhere anyhow-and start all over by writing a police procedural. He'd learned a lot watching Taylor and his people work in the yard, and that was probably the way to go.

  People loved books about crime solving. That would be cool.

  The one person who did get supsended was Ciccone, but that was for letting Mulroney get away with making a shiv. Ciccone was appealing the suspension, though. That promised to make things ugly, because Jay just knew that Uncle Cal was going to make Ciccone's life a living hell for as long as the appeal lasted.

  At the end of his shift, Jay went to the locker room along with Sullivan and Gibson. Uncle Cal met them at the door.

  "Got news," he said. "There's gonna be another ball game."

  "You have got to be kidding me."

  "Yup. It was Dep Michaelson's idea."

  Jay frowned as he entered the locker room, Sullivan, Gibson, and Uncle Cal following. Gordon Michaelson was the deputy superintendent of programs, and he had been the one to call the original ball game between the Muslims and the skinheads "the dumbest idea since Hitler invaded Russia." The notion of having it had come in a memo from Albany that strongly suggested that the ball game was a good idea, based on the reports on tensions between the two factions in RHCF. Of course, that tension was only there because some judge let Karl Fischer be moved to medium security during his appeal, but Albany wanted to "foster a commonality." Jay had taken an informal poll of both the other COs and the cons, and nobody had a clue what that phrase actually meant. Still, according to Michaelson, it was used four times in the memo.

  Uncle Cal said, "Yeah, but now the dep's sold on the idea. See, he wants to call it the Malik Washburne Memorial Game."

  Jay blinked as he unbuttoned his blue shirt. "That's actually not a bad idea."

  "Yeah," Sullivan said. "Fischer actually admitted out loud to respecting Washburne once. Thought I'd have a heart attack from the shock. Who knows, maybe they'll behave themselves."

  Smiling, Jay said, "Might even foster a few commonalities."

  Uncle Cal barked a laugh. "Let's not push it. Anyhow, the game's tomorrow at one, a
ssuming it don't rain. You three are all on it, along with Andros."

  Jay winced. So did Gibson.

  Sullivan was more verbal: "Aw, c'mon, LT, that guy's poison!"

  "No, he's not-he's a CO just like us. And if you assholes weren't playing your stupid-ass head games, a good man would still be alive. So live with it."

  With that, Uncle Cal left. Sullivan and Gibson started bitching about Andros and about Ursitti and about any number of other things. Jay didn't participate, but he did listen.

  His novel would take place in a prison and involve a DIC. He'd be able to put all kinds of local color in by having the COs actually talk like COs.

  It would be the best book ever. This one, he knew, would sell like gangbusters.

  23

  DETECTIVE DON FLACK WAS looking forward to getting a new prescription bottle.

  It had been a couple of days since he took the last pill, the morning after the double at RHCF, and since he dropped the bottle off to be refilled. With everything going on, he hadn't gotten around to picking up the refill. He'd been spending the intervening days dealing with the paperwork on the RHCF killings, and also coordinating with the Department of Homeland Security to organize a drug raid. One of Flack's confidential informants-a reliable one-had said that the Wilder gang had been moving cocaine through a particular warehouse for over a year now, and Flack had spent the past two months setting up the bust. They had to be careful-Gavin Wilder was a slippery bastard, and they couldn't afford any mistakes. The raid was scheduled to go down tomorrow, with a full contingent of NYPD and DHS personnel. Narcotics wasn't Flack's usual bag, but it was his CI who put them onto it, so he got to lead the raid.

  And Flack really couldn't afford to screw this up by writhing in agony on the floor.

  So he left his apartment on the way to work and stopped at the small family-run drugstore on the corner. He didn't know how they stayed in business. There was a Duane Reade a block away and a CVS around the corner, yet somehow, Alda Pharmacy, which was run by two old brothers named Sal and Carmine and their respective daughters, managed to thrive, despite being smaller and having a less complete selection.

  Flack always went there for aspirin and Band-Aids and condoms, only resorting to the chain drugstores when Alda didn't have something. When he got the scrip for the Percs, it wasn't even a choice in his mind: he gave the small piece of paper they'd handed him at the hospital to Sal Alda's cute daughter Vicki.

  "Hey," she had said, "I heard you're the big hero."

  "I wasn't a hero," he'd replied. "Just got caught in the blast. My buddy Mac, he's the one who found the nutjob who planted it."

  "Phooey," Vicki had said back. "I saw your picture on the front page of the Daily News. That makes you a hero."

  "Lindsay Lohan's on the front page of the Daily News. That doesn't make her a hero."

  Today, it was Carmine Alda's daughter behind the counter. "Hello there, Detective Flack."

  "Hiya, Ginny. How's Ty doin'?"

  Ty Wheeler was Ginny's boyfriend. As always when Flack asked about him, she rolled her eyes. "He's such a dork. He actually bought me tickets to the Mets game Sunday for my birthday. Like I care about baseball. He just wants to see Pedro Martinez pitch."

  "Pedro's on the disabled list," Flack said with a smile.

  "Whatever. Like I know from baseball. Maybe it's Roger Clemens."

  "He's on the Yankees. So are you gonna go? 'Cause if not, I'll take your ticket."

  She tilted her head, causing her blonde hair to fall to the side. "Very funny, Detective." She went to the back, where a shelf contained several large plastic boxes labeled with letters. One said E-F, and that was the one Ginny pulled out and started rummaging through, eventually pulling out a bag with a receipt attached to it. As she walked back to the front, she said, "This is, like, months old."

  "Yeah-didn't go through 'em all that fast."

  "Okay." She shrugged. "That's ten bucks for your co-pay."

  He nodded, pulling out his wallet and handing over one of the funky new brown ten-dollar bills. "Here you go. Have fun at the game."

  "Yeah, right."

  Grinning, Flack left the small pharmacy, pushing past an old woman in the too-skinny aisle.

  He walked toward the lot where he paid stupid amounts of money to keep his car parked, since street parking in the city was insane. Some days Flack wanted to find the guy who invented alternate-side-of-the-street parking and beat him until he bled. He had to work triple OT just to keep up with the parking lot payments.

  At least the pain wasn't that bad today.

  As he walked, he pulled out his phone and flipped it open, then dialed Mac Taylor.

  Mac answered on the third ring. "Morning, Don."

  "Hey, Mac. Listen, I just wanted to tell you-thanks."

  "For what?"

  "For askin' about me and the Percs. I appreciate the concern, y'know?"

  "No problem, Don."

  "As it happens, I just refilled them. Oh, and let Sheldon know, will ya? I'd rather have both of you off my back."

  Mac chuckled. "Listen, Don, after work today, Stella's organizing a little field trip. Want to come along?"

  Flack shrugged. "Sure. Where to?"

  "She said it's a surprise."

  * * *

  When Stella got to her desk, she found the usual large collection of e-mail waiting for her. Amidst the interdepartmental memos, the digests from the various listservs she subscribed to (most relating to the latest in forensic techniques; Mac had insisted that they all subscribe to them so they could keep up, but the signal-to-noise ratio was not optimal, which was why Stella stuck with the digests), and notes from friends was one from Jack Morgenstern.

  "This should be good," she muttered. She had no idea how Morgenstern had gotten her work e-mail address; then again, it wasn't exactly a state secret, either.

  There were no attachments, which relieved Stella. She would half expect Morgenstern to send her a virus, and in fact she ran her entire in-box through a virus scan before opening the e-mail.

  Once that was done-it took a while, but Stella had to finish up the paperwork on the Campagna case in any event-she opened the e-mail.

  Detective Bonasera:

  I hope this e-mail finds you well. Yes, you read that right. I realize I came across as something of an ass, but look at it from my perspective. When you and Detective Angell rang my doorbell 1) you woke me out of a sound sleep and 2) I had no idea that Maria had been killed. And the goons at the 52nd Precinct didn't exactly endear me to the NYPD or your methods. Yes, I was defensive, but I'd been falsely accused of a particularly hideous crime based solely on the length of my hair. That's the sort of thing that makes you defensive.

  However, all things considered, I don't blame you for suspecting me. Annie saw me go into Belluso's at closing. Of course, you'd look at me. I've boned up on what you do for a living since my false arrest, so I know that you guys do your job on the basis of where the evidence and the eyewitness accounts lead you. In this case, it led you to me.

  I'm glad, however, that you and Detective Angell kept an open mind. You examined the evidence, and when it didn't point right at me (nor should it have, since I didn't actually do anything), you looked elsewhere-and found your killer.

  Everybody wins.

  You two have filled me with a respect for the NYPD that I didn't have a week ago, Detective Bonasera, and I thank you for that. I hope the next time we meet, if we ever do, it's under more pleasant circumstances.

  All the best,

  Jack Morgenstern

  Stella stared blankly at the screen for several seconds. That was entirely the last thing she had expected.

  It took her a few moments to realize her phone was ringing. Pulling it out of her pocket, she saw that it was Angell.

  "Hey, Jen."

  "I just got the craziest e-mail."

  Stella laughed. "Let me guess-Morgenstern?"

  "Yeah. You got one, too?"

  "Yup."


  "God, Stell, I thought he was gonna ask me out on a date, the way the letter was going."

  Again, Stella laughed. "I don't think he's come around quite that much."

  "Even if he has, I haven't. The man flirts with teenagers."

  "Hey, listen, Jen, while I've got you here-you doing anything when your shift is over?"

  "Was gonna finally get my bangs trimmed, but do you have a better offer?"

  "Kind of," Stella said with a grin.

  * * *

  As soon as he entered Belluso's Bakery, Mac understood why Stella had been eager to come back here to people-watch. Yes, she wanted to see if she could find another lead to Maria Campagna's killer, but her desire to be in this place went beyond that.

  The place was bright and cheerful, even as night was falling over the Bronx. Colorful pastries, cookies, and cakes filled the two long display units. An old-fashioned cappuccino maker sat atop the counter, along with the usual assortment of straws, stirrers, plastic silverware, and napkins.

  Most of the tables and chairs were occupied. Looking at Stella and then at their party-which numbered seven-Mac said, "I'm not sure we fit."

  "Upstairs," Stella said, heading toward the wooden staircase in the center of the floor that led to the balcony-style second level. "Get me a cappuccino and a large cannoli while I set up, okay?"

  One of the women behind the counter looked at Angell. "Hey, Detective-Angell, right?"

  "Yup," Angell said with a smile. "And you remember Detective Monroe, right?"

  Lindsay smiled and gave a small wave. She was, Mac noticed, standing very close to Danny. "You're Jeanie?"

  Jeanie nodded. "Decided to bring the whole crew, huh?"

  "Most of it," Lindsay said with a look at Mac.

  Mac just shrugged. Both Sid and Peyton had been invited by Stella, along with Sheldon, Danny, Lindsay, Flack, Angell, and Mac himself. But Sid had plans with his family, and Peyton had to work the late shift. "We'll talk tomorrow, though," she had said, and Mac had sworn that he saw a twinkle in her eye when she'd said that.