“Sure.”
“I’m an ex-con.”
Vito leaned forward and regarded Nick closely, as if he’d just said that he had plastic skin, take a look.
Nick kept his eyes on Vito’s and a sincere smile on his face. “The charges were armed robbery and assault. I didn’t do it. I’ve never done any crime. And I’m working to prove my innocence and I think I’ll be exonerated. Maybe I can show you that proof in a few days, maybe it’ll take a little longer. But I’m really hoping we can go forward with this anyway.”
“You didn’t do it.” Not a question. But an invitation to continue.
“No. I was trying to help somebody and I got caught up in the system.”
“You can’t get a liquor license. That’s a third of our income.”
“My lawyer’s working on a waiver with the city. He thinks it’ll go through. With an exoneration, there’s no problem.”
“I don’t know, Nick. This is a whole ’nother thing. I been here, I’ve been the owner for twenty years. Reputation, you know.”
“Sure. I understand.” Nick was sounding confident because he was confident. “But my lawyer says I can get a court to issue a pardon, complete vindication.”
“I’ve gotta sell soon, Nick.” Vito’s hands rose, palms up. “Have some issues. Health.” He looked across the room, populated by about thirty patrons. One man wanted his check. Gera called to a waiter and pointed it out.
“Help is the problem,” he said. “People come and go and don’t show up or’re rude to customers. They steal. You have to let them go. You’re like a father and schoolmaster, you know, headmaster, all the time. And they’ll try to rob you.”
“I’m sure. A business like any other. You got to be on top of it. I was thinking maybe I could hire you to be a consultant for a while.”
“I don’t know about that. The health thing. My wife and our daughter’re taking care of me. She’s moving back into the house. My older daughter. I’ll have to take it easy. There’re pros out there, you know. Consultants. Food industry consultants. They’re pricey but it’d be a good idea in your case.”
“I know. But think about it, Vito. I’d be happy to pay you. You wouldn’t even have to come in. I could come see you twice a week or something.”
“You seem like a nice guy, Nick. And you didn’t have to tell me about your past. Not like you’re applying to be a fry cook and I check out your references. We agree and you show up at the closing, all I care about is you have a check. But you were straight with me. I gotta tell you, though, I need to think about it.”
“I don’t expect anything else. And, Vito—the asking price?”
“Yeah?”
“I could go there.”
“You’re not much of horse trader.”
“I know something good when I see it. Okay, think about it. But a favor?”
“What’s that?”
Nick said, “Don’t sell it to anybody else without giving me a chance to pitch my case again. Just give me that chance.”
A close examination. “All right. I’ll let you know. Oh, and Nick?”
“Yeah, Vito?”
“I liked it you didn’t hit on Hannah. My younger daughter.” He nodded to the black-haired waitress in the tight uniform. “You scored points there. I’ll think about it, Nick, talk it over with my family. Let you know.”
The men shook hands. “Now, I got one other question, Vito.”
“Sure, son. What’s that?”
Nick leaned back and smiled.
CHAPTER 30
Idon’t know, Amie.”
Sachs poured some Twinings black tea and gave an inquiring glance to her mother.
They had returned from Rose’s X-ray and EKG appointment—everything was on track for the surgery in a few days—and were sitting in the sunny kitchen of Sachs’s Carroll Garden town house. Rose was living both here and in her own home, six blocks away. When the woman had appointments it was easier for her to stay here, since her doctor and the hospital where the bypass surgery would occur were nearby. And she’d recover here, after the operation.
“I don’t know about Nick.” Rose took the NYPD souvenir mug, containing the tea, and added a shot of half-and-half. Sachs was working on a half-empty Starbucks. Tepid, like Nick’s. She nuked it back to steaming and sat down across from Rose.
“Was a shock to me. Him showing up.” Sachs examined her mother, wearing a skirt and blouse, hose, a thin gold chain, as befit a thin neck. As always, she’d dressed up for her doctor’s appointment as if going to church. “I’m still not sure what to think.”
“How was it for him, inside the joint?” Rose could have a sense of humor. This had developed later in life.
“We haven’t talked about it. No reason to. We don’t have anything in common anymore. He’s like a stranger. I don’t talk to store clerks or somebody I meet on the street about personal things. Why would I talk to him?”
Sachs sensed she was explaining too much, and too quickly. Rose seemed to make this observation too.
“I just hope it works out for him,” Sachs said, ending the conversation. “I should get back to Lincoln’s. Never had a perp like this one.”
“He’s a domestic terrorist? That’s what the press is saying. And did you hear that story on MSNBC? People aren’t taking escalators or elevators. A man had a heart attack in an office building in Midtown, walking up ten flights. He didn’t trust the elevator.”
“No. I missed that. Did he die?”
“No.”
Another victim to rack up for Unsub 40.
She asked, “What do you want me to pick up for dinner? Wait, is Sally coming over?”
“Not tonight. She has bridge.”
“You want to go? I can run you over to her place.”
“No, not feeling like it.”
Sachs thought back to the time when her mother and father had been queen and king of a neighborhood bridge club. What a time that was . . . Cocktails flowed, half of the crowd smoked like a tire fire, and the play for the last few hands was laughably inept, thanks to outrageous strategies concocted in gin and rye hazes. (Sachs had relished those party nights; she could sneak out and hang with the other kids in the neighborhood and even go for a joyride or set up a drag race or two. Amelia Sachs had been, her own admission, a bad girl.)
The doorbell rang. Sachs walked to the door and looked out.
Well.
Eased the door open.
“Hi,” she said to Nick Carelli. Her voice must’ve sounded cautious. He smiled uncertainly.
“Took a chance and drove by. Saw your car.”
She eased back and he stepped into the hallway. He was in black jeans, a light-blue dress shirt and navy sport coat. This was dressing up for Nick Carelli. He was carrying a large shopping bag and she smelled garlic and onions.
“I can’t stay,” he said, handing the bag over. “I brought you and Rose lunch.”
“You didn’t call.”
“No. I wasn’t far away. At a restaurant.”
“Well.” Sachs looked down. “Thanks, but—”
“Best lasagna in the city.”
The “but” hadn’t referred to the food. She wasn’t sure what it was meant to aim at. She glanced down at the bag.
Nick lowered his voice. “I had a breakthrough last night. In the files you gave me. I found a lead. A guy I think can confirm I didn’t have anything to do with the ’jacking.”
“Really? It was in the files?” Treading water verbally here. His unexpected arrival had shaken her.
“Still need to do some digging. Like being a cop all over again.”
Then she frowned. “Nick, is he connected?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But what I told you before. I’m using a buddy from school to get the particulars. He’s fine, he’s clean. Never any trouble with the law.”
“I’m glad, Nick.” Her face softened.
“Uhm, Ame . . . Amelia, look, is your mother here?”
A pause. “She is.”
“Can I say hi?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I told you she hasn’t been feeling well.”
A voice from the hallway called, “I’m well enough to say hello, Amie.”
They turned to see the wiry figure in the hallway, backlit by the large bay windows against the far wall.
“Hello, Rose.”
“Nick.”
“Mom—”
“You brought lunch?”
“Just for you two. I can’t stay.”
“We’re not ladies who lunch,” Rose said slowly. And Sachs wondered if Rose was about to go on the assault. But her mother added, “We’re ladies who dine. We’ll save it for tonight.” Rose was looking at the logo on the bag. “Vittorio’s. I know it. Good place.”
“Lasagna, veal piccata, salad, garlic bread.”
Another glance at the heavy bag. “And, Nick, where are the five people coming to join us?”
He laughed. Sachs tried to.
“Come into the living room. I have the strength to converse but not to stand for very long.”
She turned.
Oh, brother. This is just plain strange. Sachs sighed and followed the other two into the living room. She diverted to the kitchen, refrigerated the food and debated getting Nick some coffee. But decided it would take too long to brew and then cool to his taste. She wanted this to be a brief visit. She returned and found Rose in her lounger, Nick on an ottoman in front of the couch, as if sitting on a backless piece of furniture testified to the temporary nature of his stay. Sachs stood for a moment and then pulled a chair from the dining table, set it near her mother and sat down. Upright, leaning forward slightly. She wondered what her California friend Kathryn Dance, an investigator with skills in body language analysis, would have about her posture and the messages it was telegraphing.
“Amie told me about your brother, you taking responsibility for the crime. Your trying to prove your innocence.”
Rose was never one to withhold any stories she’d been told. Sachs had often thought it was a good thing that her mother was largely ignorant of social media. She would have been the hub of a million rumors zipping through the Internet.
“That’s right. I found some leads. I hope they’ll pan out. Maybe not, but then I’ll still keep trying. Rose, Amelia told me you’d been staying with her off and on. That’s why I took the chance of coming by today, not just to play delivery boy. I wanted to apologize to you. Both of you.”
The woman’s eyes drilled into his. To Nick’s credit, he didn’t look away. Sachs believed he was the picture of calm, somebody at last getting something heavy and painful off his chest.
“It was the hardest thing I ever did, cutting things off with Amelia . . . and you. Not telling you the truth about Donnie. But I couldn’t risk word getting out that he’d been involved and I hadn’t. Amelia can give you the details, if you want them, but I know in my heart this guy Donnie got involved with, this guy who ran a crew—a gang—”
“I know what a crew is. My husband was a police officer all his life.”
“Sure. Sorry. Well, this guy? He would’ve killed Donnie if I hadn’t taken the fall. There was virtually no evidence against me. I was afraid if I told anybody what really happened, Internal Affairs or a prosecutor’d put two and two together and get the idea I was faking it. They wouldn’t have to look very far to find Donnie. He was . . .” Nick’s voice caught. He cleared his throat. “He was just a kid, who couldn’t take care of himself. Oblivious, you know. He stumbled into the whole mess and got caught up with some bad people.” Nick’s eyes seemed damp.
“He was a good boy,” Rose said slowly. “I didn’t realize he had problems.”
“He wanted to get straight, but . . . addiction’s tough. I should’ve done more. I got him into a few programs but I didn’t follow up the way I should have.”
Rose Sachs was never one to pat hands. There, there, you did the best you could. She simply nodded, her lips tight. Saying, in effect: Yes, Nick, you should have. Then you wouldn’t’ve gone to prison. And Donnie might still be alive. And you wouldn’t have broken my daughter’s heart.
“Rose, you might not want to have anything to do with me.” A wan smile, a glance at Amelia. “I imagine neither of you do. And I completely understand. I just wanted to tell you I had to make a decision and I chose my brother over Amelia and you and dozens of other people. I almost didn’t. I almost threw him to the wolves but I went the other way. I’m sorry.” He rose and extended his hand.
Slowly Rose took it and said, “Thank you, Nick. Apologies are very difficult for some people. Now, I’m feeling a little tired.”
“Sure. I’ll be going.”
Sachs walked him to the door.
“I know you didn’t expect this. Just something I had to do. Like Donnie? In the Twelve Steps? He had to make the rounds and say he was sorry.” A shrug. “Or he would have if he’d gotten that far.”
He gave her a spontaneous embrace. Brief. But she felt his hand trembling as it pressed against her neck—her upper spine, she reflected, exactly where Lincoln Rhyme’s vertebrae had been snapped. She stepped back. And for a moment debated asking him to tell her what he’d found—this mysterious lead. But she didn’t.
Not your issue, she reminded herself.
She closed the door behind him. Then returned to the living room.
“That was odd,” Rose said. “Speaking of the devil.”
The daughter wondered about the mother’s choice of word. Sachs re-nuked her coffee, sipped and threw out the cardboard cup.
“I don’t know.” The older woman shook her head.
“I believe him, Mom. He’s not going to lie to me.”
“Oh, I think I believe him too. I think he’s innocent. That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nick’s decided he made a mistake back then. You should have come first.”
“He’s making amends, sure. Why is that a problem?”
“Why did he contact you for help?”
A leading question. Sachs hadn’t told her that he’d done that. Nor had she shared with her mother that she’d engaged in the legal, but morally murky, effort to download and give him his case files. She’d told her only that he claimed he was innocent, that Sachs believed him and that he was working to prove it.
“Isn’t there a procedure—lawyers, review boards—for vindicating yourself?”
Sachs addressed what her mother was really asking: “Mom. Nick’ll get on with his life. I’ll get on with mine. That’s the end of it. I probably won’t ever see him again.”
Rose Sachs smiled. “I see. Could I please have some more tea?”
Sachs stepped into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a fresh mug. Just as she handed it to her mother, her phone hummed. She pulled it from her pocket, regarded caller ID and answered, “Rhyme.”
“We have a positive hit, Sachs. Real time. Unsub Forty’s in Times Square. Maybe going after a target right now. Get moving. I’ll tell you more on the way.”
CHAPTER 31
Sachs was speeding toward Times Square. In Manhattan on the FDR expressway, racing north.
The traffic wasn’t terrible . . . but the drivers were.
They wove; her Torino wove. The consequences of an error in this mutual ballet would have been steel on steel at a speed differential of about forty miles per hour. Potentially bloody and fracturing, if not fatal.
A phone call. She hit the speaker button. “Go ahead.”
“Here’s what we’ve got, Sachs. Are you there? What was that? That noise?”
“Downshift.”
The sound had been like a jet engine reversing on landing.
Lincoln Rhyme continued, “Here’s what we’ve got. Was looking over the trace. You found makeup at one of the scenes. We isolated the brand. StarBlend theatrical makeup. And geologic soil from Connecticut, Long Island, Harlem and New Jersey, all from two of the unsub’s footprints. Diesel fuel. Soda in cups and cheap wine or champagne.”
