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“That was a close call,” Blackie said, tucking his gun in his belt and scowling at me. “Are you okay? You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said, even though I wasn’t. My nerves were jangling, my teeth were rattling, and my knees were shaking out of control. In the interest of appearing cool, however, I chose to withhold that information. “Thanks for saving my life,” I said instead.
“Glad to be of service,” he replied, still scowling but extending his hand for a shake. “I’m Detective John Dash. NYPD. You may have seen me around. I’ve been following you for the past four days.”
“Yes, I believe I did catch a glimpse of you here and there.”
His frown deepened. “Guess I got a little careless.”
“I thought you were the killer,” I confessed, “looking for a good opportunity to kill me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just doing my job.”
“Speaking of jobs,” I said, “what happened to your busboy position at Stewart’s Cafeteria? Did you quit or get fired?”
He smiled. (At least I think that little upward twitch of his lips was a smile.) “I was on assignment at Stewart’s,” he explained, “working undercover. I was put there to spy on the Village homos-find out everything I could about the chicken run.”
Ugh. I wished I hadn’t asked.
“But after you got involved in the Gordon murder,” he went on, “they took me off busboy duty and sent me to spy on you.”
“Why? Did they actually think
I was the killer?”
“Can’t answer that,” he said, scraping his fingers through his wavy hair and giving me a tired look. “And I’m supposed to be asking the questions here, not you. So, whaddaya say you quit grilling me and start telling me what went on here today? Keep it short and sweet. Detective Fla
I gave him a quick rundown of the afternoon’s events, then led him into the bedroom where Gray’s shirt and boots were scattered on the floor. Blackie-oops, I mean Detective Dash-picked up the boots, wrapped them up in the shirt, and then gave them to one of the other cops to bag. “Okay, that’s it,” he said, taking the gun out of his belt and sticking it into the slim holster hidden under the leg of his long black pants. “Let’s round up the horses and head for the stable.”
THERE WERE TWO SQUAD CARS PARKED at the curb. Binky was ushered outside and deposited in one of them, accompanied by the three officers who had attended to him inside. Sullen, silent, and still in handcuffs, he sat with his shoulders hunched and his head hanging low until the car pulled out and sped away, disappearing in the shadows beneath the doomed elevated train track.
Barnabas Kapinsky had taken his final bow. There were no bravos; no standing ovation.
After an argument between Abby and Blackie about Fabrizio’s bicycle (she wanted to ride it back to the Village, he wanted her to ride in the car and come back for the bike later), Abby and I were chauffeured to the Sixth Precinct station, with Fabrizio’s Schwi
Once we were taken upstairs to Homicide, however, and seated in the hard wooden chairs across the desk from Fla
“I
told you Willy Sinclair wasn’t the murderer,” I said to Fla
“Yeah!” Abby said. “A
whole lot of trouble. We nearly had our throats slashed, you know!”
Fla
harrumph. “You can’t blame that on me. If you had kept your snotty little noses out of the case to begin with, none of this ever would have happened.”
“Right!” I cried. “And instead of having the
real murderer in police custody, you’d have poor Willy behind bars-set to go on trial and maybe even receive the death sentence-for a murder he didn’t commit!” (I don’t often break society’s strict gender rules and speak so boldly to men in authority-no matter how stupid they happen to be. But in this case, I simply couldn’t help myself. I was mad.)
Fla
“Oh, really?” I said, with a sniff. “Then perhaps you’d better
tell me how you’ve handled it, Detective. A two-bit crime reporter can’t afford to be clueless.” (Okay, maybe my tone was a tad sarcastic, but not totally. I swear! I was truly curious to hear what Fla
But I was losing him and Abby knew it. “Oh, yes, Detective Fla
It worked. Fla
“Oh, no? Then why were you constantly harassing and abusing Willy-calling him a queer and a pervert and a psychopath, and insisting that he was the one who killed Gray? Is that just the way you get your kicks?” I took one last drag on my cigarette and angrily crushed it in the ashtray.
Fla
If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. “But will you at least tell me why you put Black-I mean, Detective Dash on my tail?” I went on. “Did you really believe that
I was the murderer? I know that the person who discovers the body often turns out to be the killer, but how could you possibly think-”
“I didn’t!” Fla
“Oh?” I said, curiosity mounting. “And what would those reasons be?”
In spite of his vow not to explain himself, he did.
“I had a hunch you were going to snoop around on your own,” he began, obviously eager to reveal and extol his own skills of detection. “I had heard about the other murder cases you meddled in and wrote articles about, and I figured you would try to do the same stupid thing in this case-especially since you and your friend discovered the body.
“So I decided to have you followed,” he continued. “I called in Joh