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I heard him out. I had a lot of questions and raised a lot of objections, but he had prepared well. I had no choice but to give him the verdict he wanted.
"It sounds crazy," I said at length, "and the cost-"
"That's not a problem."
"Well, I don't have any moral objection to it," I said. "And it might work."
30
The first week in August I got a call around one in the afternoon. Joe Durkin said, "Matt, I'd like to talk to you. Why don't you come around the station house?"
"I'd be happy to," I said. "What would be a good time?"
"Now would be a good time," he said.
I went straight over there, stopping en route for a couple of containers of coffee. I gave one to Joe and he lifted the lid and sniffed the steam. "This'll spoil me," he said. "I've been getting used to squadroom coffee. What's this, French roast?"
"I don't know."
"It smells great, whatever it is."
He set it down, opened a drawer, took out one of the palm cards that had been circulating around town for a couple of weeks. It was on postcard stock and about the size of a standard postcard. One side was blank. The other showed James Severance as sketched by Ray Galindez. Beneath the sketch was a seven-digit telephone number.
"What's this?" he said, and flipped it across the desk to me.
"Looks like a postcard," I said. I turned it over. "Blank on the back. I guess you would write your message here and put the address over here on the right. The stamp would go in the corner."
"That's your phone number under the picture."
"So it is," I said. "But if the picture's supposed to be me, I'd have to say it's a lousy likeness."
He reached to take the card from me, looked at me, looked at it, looked at me again. "Somehow," he said, "I don't think it's you."
"Neither do I."
"Whoever it is," he said, "I got a snitch tells me the guy's picture's all over the street. Nobody knows who he is or why somebody's looking for him. So I figured I'd call the number and ask."
"And?"
"And I'm asking."
"Well," I said, "it's in co
"No kidding."
"And the subject of the sketch might be an important witness."
"Witness to what?"
"I can't say."
"What did you do, take holy orders? You're bound by the seal of the confessional?"
"I was hired by an attorney," I said, "and what was told to me comes under the umbrella of attorney-client privilege."
"Who hired you?"
"Raymond Gruliow."
"Raymond Gruliow."
"That's right."
"Hard-Way Ray."
"I've heard him called that, come to think of it."
He took another look at the sketch. "Guy looks familiar," he said.
"That's what everybody says."
"What's his name? That can't be confidential."
"If we knew his name," I said, "he'd be a lot easier to find."
"A witness saw him and sat down with an artist, and that's where the sketch came from."
"Something like that."
"I understand there's a reward."
I looked at the palm card. "Fu
"I heard ten grand."
"That's a lot of money."
"It seems like a lot to me," he said, "when I think of what I've done for the price of a hat. What's fu
"I didn't think you'd recognize him. You don't, do you?"
"No."
"So there wouldn't have been much point in showing you the sketch."
He gave me a long look. He said, "When there's that much of a reward for somebody, it's generally somebody who doesn't want to be found."
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "What about that little boy who disappeared in SoHo? There were reward posters all over the place."
"That's a point. There aren't any posters with this fellow, are there?"
"I haven't seen any."
"Just cards you can tuck away out of sight. Nothing on the lampposts or mailboxes, nothing tacked up on bulletin boards. Just a lot of cards circulating quietly around the neighborhoods."
"It's a low-budget operation, Joe."
"With a five-figure reward."
"If you say so," I said, "but I still don't see anything here about a reward."
"No, neither do I. This is good coffee."
"I'm glad you like it."
"Last time we talked," he said, "you were looking into all these old cases. That painter and his wife, that gay guy who got more than he bargained for, that cabbie who picked up the wrong fare. Remember?"
"As if it were yesterday."
"I'll bet. This guy here tied in with them?"
"How could he be?"
"Why do you always answer a question with a question?"
"Do I have to have a reason?"
"Fucking smartass. What's the status of those old cases, anyway?"
"As far as I can tell," I said, "they're all still dead."
The waiting was hard to take.
We got the word out on the street a good ten days before I heard from Joe Durkin. I started with a few people like Da
I was pretty sure he'd go to ground in Manhattan. If he'd ever lived outside the borough, I didn't know about it. In all the months he'd stalked Alan Watson, patrolling his streets in a Queensboro-Corona uniform, even (if he was telling the truth) having an affair with Watson's wife, he'd chosen to live in Manhattan. He could have found a cheaper and more comfortable room a few blocks from the Q-C offices, or within easy walking distance of Watson's Forest Hills home. But he'd moved instead to East Ninety-fourth Street. He'd have had to take two trains to get to work, and two more to get home.
So I centered the manhunt in Manhattan, and I put the most energy into those parts of town where someone like Severance wouldn't stick out like a white thumb. I hit the places that called themselves hotels or rooming houses, and I went to lunch counters and drugstores and asked if they knew where I could find a room for rent, because every neighborhood has some SRO hotels that don't hang out a sign.
And we left palm cards in delis and bodegas, too, and in shoeshine parlors and ginmills and numbers drops. And then it was time to sit back and wait, time to be home in case the phone rang, and that's when it got difficult.
Because it's easier when you're doing something. Sitting in my room at the Northwestern, watching a ball game or a newscast, reading a book or a newspaper, staring out the window, I couldn't avoid the thought that it was all misplaced effort, all a waste of time.
He didn't have to be in Manhattan. He could be lying on a beach in California, biding his time, waiting for the New York heat to die down. He could be in Jersey or Co
The day after I spoke to Durkin, I picked up the phone and called Lisa Holtzma
I didn't even think about it. I had the phone in my hand and was dialing her number without having made any conscious decision. The phone rang four times and her machine picked up. I rang off without leaving a message.