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  And where the hell was Ray Carbone?

  34

  That morning I got to Packy’s even before Geneva did. When I went into the office, I saw a Federal Express envelope on the desk. It must have been delivered the day before and Geneva had left it there. When I sat at the desk and looked at it, I saw that the sender was Walker Blue.

  I slit open the envelope and took out a brown nine-by-twelve envelope. Inside that I found the partnership papers Walker had drawn up. I left them on the desk without reading them. I wasn’t in the mood to wade through pages and pages of legalese this morning.

  I leaned back in my chair and took Geneva’s little tape recorder out of my pocket, along with the two tapes—the one from Ray’s machine and the one from Stan Waldrop’s machine. I laid the machine on the desk with a tape on either side. I doubted that I’d be working either case if Walker and I had become partners a month earlier. Stan Waldrop certainly wouldn’t have gone to Walker Blue Associates, and Heck probably would have hired someone else as well, even though he knew I was friends with Ray Carbone. No, that wasn’t right. Heck would have called me—at least I hoped he would have called.

  Wait a minute. Thinking back to that initial interview with Truman Tyler in Heck’s office, hadn’t either he or Heck said that Pesce sent him to find both Heck and me? Damn it. I’d had the chance that morning to ask Pesce why he asked for me, and I’d blown it. How had he known that I was friends with Ray? Had Ray mentioned me to him often enough for him to remember when he was arrested?

  And what about Truman Tyler? I hadn’t talked to him since that afternoon in Heck’s office. Maybe he knew more than he was saying. After all, hadn’t he left three messages on Ray’s machine? Why was he trying to find Ray on his own before coming to Heck and me?

  I put Walker’s partnership papers back in the envelope and tucked them away in the top desk drawer. I put the recorder and the two tapes back into the pockets of my jacket. Then I pulled the Yellow Pages out of the bottom right-hand drawer and looked up Truman Tyler under “Attorneys.” When I didn’t find him, I tried finding a listing for “Lawyers” but that only said to see “Attorneys.”

  Tyler wasn’t listed.

  I put the phone book away and called Missy.

  “Heck’s not here, Miles.”

  “I know, Missy, I saw him this morning. When Truman Tyler was there the other day, did he leave an address and phone number?”

  “Sure, hold on.”

  She came back in a moment and gave me both. I thanked her and hung up, feeling stupid. The reason Tyler wasn’t listed in the Manhattan Yellow Pages was because his office was in Brooklyn.

  Did I want to go to Brooklyn to talk to him? I guess I didn’t have much choice, but before doing that I called a friend of mine in Brooklyn, Nick Delvecchio.

  Delvecchio’s real godfather, Dominick Barracondi—otherwise known as “Nicky Barracuda”—was the supposedly retired godfather of Brooklyn, now choosing to spend his days running his Italian restaurant in Sheepshead Bay. With his connections I figured maybe he would have some info on Tyler

  Luckily, he was in when I called.

  “What can I do for you, Miles? If I remember correctly I still owe you a few.”

  “I don’t know who owes who, Nick, but I do need to pick your brain a little.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You know a lawyer named Truman Tyler, with an office on Court Street?”

  “Just barely on Court Street,” he corrected me. “He’s got a Court Street address, but it’s actually a door around the side of the building, over a deli.”

  “He’s that small-time?”

  “That small-time. Is this about Danny Pesce?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I read the papers, Miles.”

  “Do you know Pesce?”

  “I’ve run across him once or twice.”

  I frowned. “Is he from Brooklyn too?”

  “He is.”

  “What the hell are Pesce and Tyler doing in Manhattan?” I asked out loud.

  “I understand some people cross the bridge from time to time, Miles.”

  “Unlike you, huh?”

  “You want me to nose around a little? Maybe find out why Pesce was having dealings with a Manhattan bookie like Bonetti?”

  “Did you know Bonetti?”

  “No, never met him or heard of him until I read the papers. How’d you get involved in this, Jack?”

  “Pesce wants me to find Ray Carbone.”

  Delvecchio knew Ray.

  “What’s Carbone got to do with it?”

  “Pesce seems to think Ray can clear him.”

  “Does he say Ray did it?”

  “He’s not saying anything, but that I have to find Ray.”

  “And that’s proving to be a problem?”

  “A big one.” I decided not to elaborate. I really didn’t want to drag Nick into the case, I simply wanted to pick his brain.

  “What’s Tyler’s claim to fame, Nick? He doesn’t exactly have an Italian name.”

  “His mother’s Italian, his father was Jewish.”

  “What a combination. Was his mother, uh, connected to anybody?”

  “I don’t know, but I can ask around.”

  “Don’t get into trouble because of it.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “Okay, then do it.” I still kept him in the dark about Joy, and some of the other facts. He was just going to ask some questions for me.

  “I’ll get back to you when I know something.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  “Hey, Jack?”

  “What?”

  “You crossing the bridge?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Want me to get you a bodyguard to meet you on this side?”

  “I want you to get bent,” I said, and hung up on his laughter.

  35

  When Geneva came to work she exhibited what was becoming her customary surprise at finding me there early.

  “I won’t be here for long,” I assured her, “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Like the rest of us don’t?”

  “Speaking of the rest of you, tell Marty I’m going to need him to help me with some computer stuff.”

  “Is he gonna make overtime?”

  “Is he asking, or you?”

  “Both.”

  “Tell him he’s going to do me a favor.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Get him to stay around.”

  “For free? How do I do that?”

  “Use your considerable charm, my love.”

  “I hope that ain’t an example of yours,” she said as I went out the door.

  I took the BMT line across the bridge and got off at Court Street. I could count on one hand the times I’d been to Brooklyn, but the last time had been fairly recently. Delvecchio had been working two cases a while back and had needed somebody to tail the husband of a client. I’d helped out some, but hadn’t been back until now.

  Court Street reminded me of a dirtier, smaller Manhattan block. I walked past a combination Dunkin’ Donuts, Nathan’s, and Roy Rogers’ on my way to finding Truman Tyler’s address. Most of the high-rises on this street house lawyers’ offices. In fact, if this part of Court Street was ever blown up by terrorists, the legal profession in Brooklyn would be almost wiped out.

  I hadn’t called ahead for fear that Tyler would arrange not to be in when I arrived. I wanted to surprise him. Of course, there was always the chance he’d be in court, but I had the feeling that Tyler was the kind of lawyer who tried to settle everything out of court.

  I saw what Delvecchio had meant when I found the number I was looking for. The address was on the door of a deli, but around the side was a black metal staircase that led up to the second floor. There was a window overlooking the front of the deli that said truman tyler, attorney-at-law, and the same thing was written on the door. As I entered, I found myself in a small waiting room w
ith an empty desk, a tacky vinyl sofa, and magazines that were months old. The desk was dusty, so I guessed that Tyler had not had a secretary or receptionist for some time.

  The door to the inner office was open, and I stepped to it and looked inside. Truman Tyler had his back to me and was going through a file drawer looking for something.

  “Secretary’s day off?” I asked.

  He whirled around, his eyes wide with fright, slamming the drawer as he did.

  “Jesus!” he said. “You scared me.”

  “Nice office, Truman. Not top of the line, but . . .”

  “What do you want?”

  He wasn’t as polite as he had been in Heck’s office, but then neither was I.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  He thought it over and then waved a hand at the cheap plastic chair he was using for visitors. He sat down behind his desk and studied me warily.

  “Have you found Carbone?” he asked when I didn’t speak right away.

  “I haven’t, but I found his girlfriend.”

  That made him frown.

  “We weren’t looking for his—”

  “She’s dead.”

  After a moment he said, “What?”

  “Beaten to death. Does that sound familiar?”

  He squirmed in his chair.

  “That means that Danny couldn’t have killed Bonetti.”

  “No,” I said, “you’re jumping to conclusions. All this means is that he couldn’t have killed the girl because he’s in the lockup.”

  “Carbone could have done it.”

  “Why would Ray beat his own girlfriend to death?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just saying it’s a possibility. All I’d have to prove to a jury is that there’s a possibility that someone else could have done it.”

  “You? I thought Heck Delgado would be taking this case to trial.”

  “Well, yes, he will, but . . . I was just saying.”

  “Truman, tell me why you left three messages for Ray Carbone on his telephone answering machine before you came looking for Heck and me?”

  “I didn’t.”

  I took out Geneva’s recorder and Ray’s tape.

  “Want me to play them back?”

  Tyler closed his eyes.

  “No. I just thought maybe if I could find him, Danny would let me work the case.”

  “You want to work this case yourself?”

  “Of course. I’m a good lawyer.”

  I made a point of looking around his office.

  “Okay, so I don’t have a Fifth Avenue office, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good.”

  “I’m not buying that as a reason, Truman.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think you’re too smart to really think you’re a good lawyer. No, I think there’s something going on here that Heck and I don’t know about. You and Pesce were into something, and you brought Ray into it. When all hell broke loose and Pesce got tagged with Bonetti’s murder, you decided you needed to find Ray. Carbone must have mentioned me, and that I sometimes did work for Heck Delgado, so you guys decided to kill two birds with one stone—hire a top attorney, and get me to find Ray Carbone.”

  Tyler didn’t say a word.

  “What are you into, Truman?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I talked to Danny today.”

  “So?”

  “He’s keeping his mouth shut, but once it looks like he’s going to go up for Bonetti’s murder do you think he’ll stay quiet? He’ll give Ray up, he’ll give you up . . . hell, he’d give his mother up. Danny Pesce doesn’t exactly strike me as a prime example of a stand-up guy, Truman. Does he give you that impression?”

  No answer. I hadn’t gotten anywhere with Pesce, and I wasn’t getting anywhere with Tyler, but maybe I was planting some seeds.

  “Think about it, Truman,” I said, standing up. “Ray’s on the run from somebody. How long will it be before they come after you?”

  Tyler was sweating, but he still wasn’t talking. I took out my business card and dropped it on his desk.

  “When things get really hot, call me or Heck. Maybe we’ll still be able to help you. Maybe.”

  36

  I was happy to get back to Manhattan. Brooklyn doesn’t impress me. How can you be impressed with a city that had a baseball team—a good baseball team—and lost it? Okay, so New York lost the Giants, but we replaced them with the Mets. We still have two teams. How many does Brooklyn have?

  None.

  I rest my case. (I know, I know, the Yanks play in the Bronx and the Mets in Queens. Technically speaking, Manhattan doesn’t have a team, but at least we never lost one.)

  I was satisfied that I had hit pay dirt. Tyler and Pesce were into something together, some kind of scam. I’d hate to think that Ray was in it with them, but it was possible. If he’d seen a way to make some big money, he might have gone for it.

  Because the dead man was a bookie, the scam would have to have had something to do with gambling. However, the dead man was a Manhattan bookie, and both Pesce and Tyler were Brooklyn boys. They probably would have needed somebody to bring them together with Bonetti . . . and whether I liked it or not, that could have been Ray Carbone.

  When I got back to Packy’s, Geneva told me that Marty wasn’t there yet. “He’s not really due until three.”

  “Fine.”

  I went into the office and saw the red light flashing on my answering machine.

  Beep.

  “Mr. Jacoby, this is Detective Sandoval from the Sixth. I have some information you might be interested in. Please give me a call. I’ll be in early today, from eleven to seven.”

  Before the tape had a chance to rewind, I had dialed the Sixth and asked for the squad.

  The man who answered said “Squad” but did not identify himself as a detective. He might have been a civilian employee.

  “Detective Sandoval, please.”

  “One moment.”

  I waited and counted. Sandoval came on before I reached ten.

  “This is Sandoval.”

  “Jacoby here. Thanks for your call.”

  “I thought you’d be interested to know that the woman wasn’t just beaten, she was tortured.”

  “What?”

  “The ME found cigarette burns on her breasts, her pubes, and the soles of her feet. We don’t know in what order they were administered.”

  I didn’t think I’d ever heard anyone say “pubes” before. Another cop—like Pell’s partner, Matthews—would have said “cunt,” or something of that nature.

  “So whoever killed her was looking for something.”

  “And thought she knew where it was.”

  “I wonder if she did. I wonder if she told him.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Think you might know what they were looking for?”

  “I haven’t got a clue, Detective.”

  “Maybe they were just looking for your friend Carbone.”

  “That could be.”

  “Any luck with that yet?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you had found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about telling me why you’re looking for him in the first place?”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You working for a lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’re dealing with client confidentiality.”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk to your lawyer, Jacoby. I’d like to know if the reason you’re looking for Carbone could be connected with his girlfriend’s death, huh?”

  “Okay.”

  “I gave you a little, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Now you give me a little back.”

  “That’s how it works.”

  “Let’s remember that.”

  “I’ll be in touch, Detective. Uh, I guess you don’t need to see me this afternoon, right?�
�

  “No, but if you don’t stay in touch . . .”

  We hung up and I called Heck right away.

  “He’s in court, Miles,” Missy said.

  “Have him call me when he gets in, okay, Missy? I need a clarification on what I can and can’t tell the police who are working on Joy’s murder.”

  “All right.”

  I hung up and sat back in my chair and then decided I needed a beer. I went behind the bar and got myself an Icehouse. People hadn’t discovered it yet. The Buds and Millers and Rolling Rocks were going, but not the Icehouse. I didn’t mind. I liked it.

  “Drinking up the profits?” Geneva asked. She was working on a glass of club soda. I had never seen her take a drink while working behind the bar.

  “I need it. I got some news about Ray Carbone’s girlfriend.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you don’t want to know, Gen.”

  “I ever meet her?”

  “I think she was in here once with Ray.”

  “Blond hair, right? Like real blond, but dark eyebrows? Real fit?”

  “She was an aerobics instructor.”

  “I remember her. Somebody did somethin’ bad to her, huh?”

  “Pretty bad,” I said, and took a swig of the beet

  “You gettin’ any closer to findin’ him?”

  “No.”

  “What about the joke man’s jokes?”

  “Not that, either.”

  “What’s happenin’ with the partnership?”

  “I got the papers, but I haven’t read them.”

  “Decide what you’re gonna do with us?”

  “With this place, you mean? No.”

  “We part of this place, Boss. You dump it, you dump us.”

  “That’s not fair, Gen. I haven’t thought it through. I have too much on my mind right now.”

  “We can wait.”

  A customer came in and sat at the bar and she went to see what he wanted. Marty was still about an hour away from coming in, and I didn’t know what Ed’s schedule was. I left all of that to Geneva.

  I took another beer and carried it and the one I was working on back into the office.