The James Deans Part 14

"One's for you, the other's for Domino."

He had the good taste and good sense not to count it out in the open. Apparently, he still hadn't picked up today's papers. I ordered him a drink.

"Can't drink while I'm on," he said, but not in time to stop the barmaid from fixing his whiskey.

"Ever stop you while you were on the job?"

"No, but this ain't the job. Here they're f.u.c.kin' serious about it."

"Don't worry about it, Heaton," I said as the barmaid placed his scotch down in front of him. "They'll make an exception today."

He didn't touch it. "Oh yeah, and why is that?"

"Because the guy who murdered Moira just signed a full confession."

He froze in place. Only his face moved, and involuntarily, streams of emotions was.h.i.+ng over his bloated red countenance so quickly I couldn't keep up. Finally, it was just a blank mask. "What?"

"You read the papers?"

"Not since-no, not in a long time."

"Drink your drink, John."

He did, in a gulp. I tapped the bar in front of him. The barmaid poured another. He drank. After the third, he was primed.

"It's ugly, huh?"

"Very."

"Tell me."

I didn't argue with him. He'd find out anyway. He was pretty stoic about it until I described how Alfonseca had disposed of Moira's body in pieces off City Island. That he couldn't bear and slammed his forehead down full force onto the bar. It split open like the skin of an overripe fruit, blood pouring down into his eyes, over his cheeks, swallowing up his tears. I told the barmaid to get Rocky. There was little doubt in my mind he'd know how to stem the flow of blood. As for the rest of it, there was nothing anyone could do to help.

Chapter Ten.

I'D BEEN TO Mets games less well attended than this press conference. It seemed every media outlet in the free world had sent at least one reporter and cameraman. Some of the local TV stations sent both their police beat reporter and their political a.n.a.lyst. Pete Hamill and Jimmy Breslin were there too. To say there was a bit of a carnival atmosphere in the crowd would have been an understatement. On its face, this was about Moira Heaton and Ivan Alfonseca. Believing that was like believing Christ's last supper was about the matzo.

This was many things, a sort of political smorgasbord with something for everyone. Even with all the elected officials in the room, there was enough free press and publicity to go around. Mostly, however, this was about Steven Brightman, and everyone understood as much. About five minutes after the jewelry was confirmed as having belonged to Moira, word began leaking out about Steven Brightman's innocence. This so-called press conference was to be a coming-out party, a resurrection of sorts, the kickoff of his campaign for higher office, whatever office that might be. Maybe it wasn't right, but I couldn't blame Brightman.

There weren't quite as many people onstage as in the audience. Fishbein stood at the podium, nearly buried behind a sea of microphones. Directly behind him were the mayor, the police commissioner, and Brightman and his wife. I stood in the next row between Larry McDonald, Robert Gloria, both resplendent in full-dress blues, Wit, Pete Parson, and a sad-faced Joe Spivack. Geary, as you might expect, stood in the wings. Also in the wings were John Heaton, forehead st.i.tched and bandaged, his estranged wife, and his son. The wife and son had been flown up overnight on Geary's private jet. Domino was nowhere in sight.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the DA said, tapping the mikes, "good morning. I'm going to make a brief statement to be followed by a few words from some of the people who share the platform with me today. Then we'll take your questions.

"This is a day of mixed feelings. On a personal level, it is a profoundly sad day, while professionally, it is a uniquely satisfying one," Fishbein continued. "As many of your organizations have today reported, this office, in league with the NYPD, the Department of Corrections, and a team of private investigators, has finally determined the whereabouts of Moira Heaton, the young woman who, at the time of her disappearance nineteen months ago, was working as an intern for State Senator Brightman.

"Unfortunately, it is my somber duty to inform you that Miss Heaton is deceased. Our hearts and deepest sympathies go out to her family and friends. And to spare her family any further grief, I shall, at this time, refrain from discussing the details surrounding her untimely death. A written statement will be released later today. What I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt is that State Senator Steven Brightman has been completely and utterly exonerated in this matter. I can state this with such confidence because the man who abducted and subsequently murdered Miss Heaton, Ivan Alfonseca, popularly known as Ivan the Terrible, is in our custody and has signed a full confession which he himself dictated to his lawyer."

The mayor and police commissioner followed the DA. They said much the same thing as Fishbein, blowing their own horns in the process. It was just amazing. As I recall, neither man was at that meeting in Joe Spivack's office. I guess I must've missed something. But now it was time for the main event as Steven Brightman, his wife standing just over his shoulder, stepped to the podium. First a buzz rippled through the press corps, and then an expectant silence. He was not smiling, nor was he morose, again displaying his talent for understanding the moment.

"There is nothing for me to rejoice in today," he began. "As is often the case in life, when one dark cloud moves on, it is replaced by another, more sinister cloud. I would gladly take back the whispers and suspicions, the backbiting and silent accusations, which have plagued me over the last nineteen months in exchange for better news for the Heaton family. Alas, no such deal can be struck, and the Heaton family is left only to grieve.

"The rest of us, however, can take this opportunity, should, must take this opportunity not to grieve Moira Heaton, but to celebrate her and the thousands of selfless, dedicated young men and women like her across this great country. Moira could have gone to any number of fine law schools or to graduate school. She could have followed in her father's footsteps and become a member of the NYPD. But Moira took the road less traveled. She chose to commit herself to the democratic process and public service. And so, as her family grieves, let us applaud her. Let us not dwell on how her life came to an end, but rather on how she lived it. Let her life stand as an example to the rest of us." He bowed his head and took a long pause. There were dry eyes in the place, but not many.

"I have one brief thing to say in conclusion," Brightman continued. "Many people have already taken credit for getting to the bottom of this matter. Some rightly so." He smiled, turning and nodding at the mayor, the police commissioner, and the DA. That got a laugh from the press. "But there is one man sharing this platform with the rest of us who truly deserves the credit. He is the man who a.s.sembled the team, the man who put together the facts that led ultimately to Mr. Alfonseca's admission of guilt. He is a former member of the NYPD and a licensed private investigator." He turned fully around. "Moe, will you come up here please? Moses Prager, ladies and gentlemen."

I could not move. How, I wondered, could he do this to me? Why? Pete nudged me forward so that I was going to either walk or fall. Brightman shook my hand and shoved me onto a very isolated little island.

"This was a case to me, a case I was not anxious to accept," I said. "I am pleased to have successfully fulfilled my professional obligations, but the results are not the results I would have hoped for. I have two-no, three things to say. First, I could not have done this without the help of Y. W. Fenn, Captain Lawrence McDonald of the NYPD, Detective Robert Gloria of the NYPD, Peter Parson, NYPD retired, and Joe Spivack of Spivack and a.s.sociates. Second, on behalf of these men and myself, I wish to extend our condolences to the Heaton family. Finally, I would ask that any reward monies due me go to establis.h.i.+ng a scholars.h.i.+p fund in Moira Heaton's name at her alma mater, Fordham University. Thank you."

The press started firing questions before I was six inches away from the podium. Thankfully, none of them were for me. A hand reached out of the crush of bodies on the platform and grabbed my forearm. It was Brightman's. Now he was shaking my hand.

"I think maybe I was wrong about you and politics, Mr. Prager," he said, beaming at me. "That scholars.h.i.+p thing was brilliant, just brilliant." That struck me as an odd thing to say. Once a politician, always a politician, I suppose. "Well," he went on, "I just wanted to thank you again. We'll be seeing you and your friends this evening, correct?"

"Tonight, yes," I said.

"Senator Brightman! Senator Brightman!" someone from the press corps called out, and he was gone.

10-9-8, LOCATED IN an old meatpacking warehouse on the Lower West Side, was the most chic, coolest restaurant in town, which, in Manhattan, meant hardly anyone knew the place existed. Once its name appeared in the papers or in New York magazine, it would sizzle, making money hand over fist, but it would fall precipitately from grace. Popularity is a kind of a curse in the city, the great New York paradox.

Geary had sent a limo to pick us all up. Unlike this morning's press conference, there would be no somber pretense this evening. Tonight was about celebration, about showing grat.i.tude for a job well done. I wasn't going to argue the point. In spite of my past successes, circ.u.mstance had conspired to prevent me from sharing them. At last, I had completed a case with no dark secrets to keep, no personal price to pay. The tragedies were someone else's.

We were shown into a private dining room inside what had once been a meat locker, the main design feature being stainless steel. Given Moira's fate, it seemed an odd choice, but even that wasn't going to upset me, not tonight. It was the usual cast of characters: Wit, Pete, Larry, Gloria, Spivack, Geary, Brightman, and me. Geary had promised a dinner at some later date, when things had settled down, that would include our families and friends.

The champagne was flowing and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. Everyone, that is, except the still rather dour-looking Joe Spivack. He had taken his failure to make the connection between Ishmail Almonte, Ivan Alfonseca, and Moira very hard and very much to heart. Not a man in the room blamed him for what had happened. Like I said before, sometimes it takes time and distance to see the things that are there to be seen. Though I wasn't particularly fond of the ex-U.S. marshal, I couldn't help but feel for him. I knew only too well what a case of the ifs could do to a man.

Dinner was okay, if you were fond of starvation. 10-9-8's chef's favorite ingredient seemed to be big, mostly empty plates. Clearly, he had read too much French existentialism and wanted to make a statement about the importance and isolation of the individual in a starkly judgmental world. Who knows, maybe Camus wasn't dead, but cooking in Manhattan.

I whispered to Pete, who pa.s.sed it down, that I'd treat them all to their choice of a roast beef sandwich at Brennan & Carr's or hot dogs at Nathan's. The world knew Nathan's Famous in Coney Island, but only Brooklynites knew about Brennan & Carr's. It was situated at the strategic crossroads of Avenue U and Nostrand Avenue, and you could smell the roasting meat for blocks around. They'd slice you a hefty mound of b.u.t.tery soft beef and then dip the bun in the rotisserie drippings. The sandwich fairly melted in your mouth. You just sort of chewed out of habit.

Following dessert-smaller portions on bigger plates-we all split into groups of twos and threes, chatting, smoking contraband cigars, drinking port or cognac. The taste of the earthy, sweet cigar made Joe Spivack smile in spite of himself. It seemed to me he was transported back to his time in South Florida when he was a part of the big agency and the spotlight shone a little less brightly on an individual's mistakes. I didn't approach him for fear of breaking the spell. All the alcohol was getting to me, and I excused myself in an attempt to find a bathroom among the meat lockers.

When I got back from the bathroom, they'd all returned to their seats and Geary was giving a little thank-you speech to the boys. He wasn't quite the speaker his protege was, but few were. He was just full of compliments for everyone and asked that each of us speak with him privately before leaving. That was the Crocus Valley in him. We were going to get our Christmas bonuses, but not in a gauche, public display.

Then Brightman stepped up to speak. He hesitated, allowing enough time for the waiter to fill our fresh champagne flutes with Dom Perignon. When the waiter left, Brightman did not launch into one of his inspirational talks. He asked simply that we raise our gla.s.ses.

"Gentlemen. To Moe Prager. A man who will go a long way for an expensive meal."

"Here. Here," Larry seconded.

"Expensive, yes," I said, raising my gla.s.s, "but hardly a meal."

Even Geary laughed. The champagne, wonderfully cool and yeasty, went down easily.

"I've done enough public speaking today for several lifetimes," I said. "Good luck to Thomas Geary and Steven Brightman. Again, thank you all."

When I sat back down I noticed one of my business cards where the flute had sat before I raised it. I flipped it over.

There once was a man who with magic Turned to good use events that were tragic He was cleared of a murder with delicate aplomb Because his men were blind, deaf, and dumb And now he's free to run without static.

The handwriting was, as near as I could tell, the same as on the first card. Though the syntax had improved, the general theme remained consistent. Someone, a man most probably in this room, was not so fond of Steven Brightman as he pretended. I slid the card into my wallet to keep the first limerick company. Maybe someday I'd look into the authors.h.i.+p, but not tonight.

Geary called an end to the evening's proceedings. He and his boy thanked us again, individually, as was the plan. Brightman, of course, disappeared when the envelopes were pa.s.sed out. I went last of all.

" 'Thank you' loses all meaning after a while, don't you agree?" Geary offered, shaking my hand with a genuine firmness I had not expected. "One day you may be able to say that you had a large part in turning this state, maybe the country, around."

"Please, I'm already a little nauseous. Don't make it worse. I just did a job and I got lucky and had a lot of help."

"You see," he said, smiling smugly, "never underestimate luck."

"Never."

He handed me an envelope. "Open it at home, please. As you requested, Steven has made arrangements for the reward money to be placed in a scholars.h.i.+p fund in Moira's name. I have added a matching check to that amount, and Steven has promised to set up a charity to continue adding to the scholars.h.i.+p. Strangely, Moe, it has been a pleasure knowing you. You're not at all what I'd been led to believe."

"Talk about a Jewish compliment."

"Yes, well, things don't always come out quite how you mean them. Please, if you ever need a favor ..."

I left it at that.

None of us spoke much in the limo. To a man we were pretty well beat and several times drunk by any legal standard. Though we all kept our envelopes unopened, I noticed we all patted our jacket pockets with regularity to make sure they hadn't disappeared. No one seemed inclined to take me up on my offer of free food, and the limo emptied out one man at a time, until only Larry and I were left.

I asked the driver to pa.s.s by Brennan & Carr's before dropping me at home. I didn't get out. The place was closed, the spits had long since stopped spinning, but the aroma of the roasting meat had so thoroughly basted the air that my mouth still watered. It seemed every stray dog in the neighborhood had the same reaction. We must have been quite a sight, a long black limo stuffed into the tiny parking lot surrounded by a pack of hopeful strays. The back door opened and someone tossed out sc.r.a.ps to the dogs. Just then, Larry patted his envelope. It was time to move on, I told the driver. My appet.i.te was gone.

Chapter Eleven.

WITH THE FOURTH of July two weeks gone, summer was in full bloom. I have always disliked characterizing my life as having returned to normal, but it had, at least, returned to a familiar, comfortable rhythm. Even the pain of the miscarriage had ceased hanging over the front door to our house like Pa.s.sover blood, and the hoopla surrounding the events of June had thankfully faded.

The funeral ma.s.s and memorial services for Moira were long complete. Her mother and brother had returned to Florida, and John was back to the business of drinking himself to death. Ivan the Terrible had been replaced on the front pages by some other psycho killer whose name lent itself to witty headlines. And the men with whom I had shared a very intense few weeks had gotten back to the business of their own lives, all, of course, with a bit more cash in their pockets and some with more bra.s.s on their collars.

Captain Larry McDonald was now Deputy Chief McDonald. Detective Gloria had gotten the b.u.mp up to first grade and been moved out of Missing Persons and inside One Police Plaza. Pete's kid had fulfilled a lifelong dream by exchanging his corrections uniform for the blue of the NYPD. With the money he received, Pete Sr. finally felt comfortable enough to let his partners buy him out of his share in the bar. Apparently, he and his wife were seriously considering moving down south. Wit's piece on the resolution of Moira's death and Brightman's public absolution was to be the featured story in the August edition of Esquire. Aaron and I had received an amazing number of contracts from big catering companies, and our phone-order business was up 50 percent in a month. Coincidence had nothing to do with any of it.

The only person who'd dropped out of sight was Joe Spivack. Soon after the last of the memorial services and dedications, which we were all sort of required to attend, Spivack closed down his office in Brooklyn Heights and moved out of the city. No one knew where he'd gotten to, and, as none of us were exactly buddy buddy with him, no one seemed particularly concerned. To his way of thinking, he'd f.u.c.ked up. Nothing anyone could say was going to change that. With time, maybe he'd come to see it differently. Oh, and that dinner Geary had promised that would include our families and friends, it never came off. That was fine. We had moved on.

I was certain we had, but Wit's phone call put a dent in that notion.

"Hey, Wit," I picked up, actually happy to hear his voice, "what's up?"

"I ... I thought you might want to know," he said in a sort of odd monotone.

"Know what?"

"It just came across the wire. Spivack's dead."

"s.h.i.+t! How?"

"He ate his .357 Magnum for breakfast yesterday."

Neither one of us was shocked by what he'd done or how he'd done it. There was a few seconds of silence between us.

"Where was he?" I asked.

"Up in the Adirondacks someplace. Apparently, he owned a cabin up there."

"Anything about a note?"

"Nothing in the wire story, no," Wit said, sounding a bit distracted. "I'll find out about the funeral arrangements and get back to you."

So, Spivack had taken his own forgiveness out of the equation. Some people are just more comfortable with punishment than forgiveness. Forgiveness is always a messy proposition; complicated, ambiguous, hard to accept. Sometimes a bullet is easier to take. I'd never put a barrel in my mouth, not in jest or in the depths of despair, but I'd been a cop. Cops understand punishment. They believe in it. On the job, they live by it. Some die by it too.

THE CORONER'S REPORT was straightforward enough. Joseph Spivack had consumed nearly a liter of 100-proof vodka before pressing the tip of his big handgun to the underside of his jaw above his Adam's apple and dispensing a single round. He had left no note, but even the most devout conspiracy theorist couldn't have spun much of a tale out of Spivack's death. Since closing down his firm, he'd spent most of his time drinking alone in his cabin. Still, his suicide made me uneasy.

He was afforded the honor of a pretty nice military funeral out at the Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island. There was no twenty-one-gun salute or anything like that, but there was a small honor guard and a flag-draped coffin. No family showed that I could tell. Some of his old marshal buddies and a few ex-employees came. Wit, Pete, and I were there. Rob Gloria and Larry Mac couldn't get out of work. Neither Geary nor Brightman was anywhere in sight.

When the honor guard finished folding the flag that had draped Spivack's casket into a taut triangle, an officer asked if there was a Mr. Moses Prager in attendance.

"That's me."

The officer approached. "Sir," he said, placing the flag in my hands, "I've been instructed to deliver this to you. On behalf of the United States Army, my condolences."

I was utterly and completely stunned. Though this must have been either a mistake or a very bad joke, the grave site was not the place to delve into it. As they began lowering his coffin, a Navy F-14 pa.s.sed directly overhead on its way to the nearby Grumman plant. It was purely coincidental, of course, but we chose to ignore that fact and saluted the roaring jet.

We retired to a local bar. Kilroy's Place uniquely reflected the bulk of its clientele. The decor was an interesting mixture of Grumman and military paraphernalia ranging from fighter group patches to helmets to bayonets to a piece of a lunar module mockup. In a place of honor above the bar sat a wood-and-gla.s.s framed flag just like the one I cradled in my arms.

"What do you think the flag thing is all about?" Pete Parson was curious to know.

"f.u.c.k if I know. His life must've been sadder than we thought for him to have left this to me."

Wit was noncommittal, staring into his Wild Turkey as if it were a crystal ball. "He obviously respected you and the work you did for Brightman, Mr. Prager. You should be honored."

"Wit, I think the time has come for you to call me Moe. You think, Pete?"

"I suppose you two have dated long enough."