"Her call tracked back to an address in Crystal River, Florida, about a hundred fifty miles up the coast. The phone's listed to a Mr. Dan Dell.
I just called there to see what would happen. A lady answered.
Nice voice. She said: ' morning, Dan's Bait and Charter."
A Florida bait and charter! Every cop's retirement dream!
"Anyway, I was wondering-do you want me to go up there and check it out?"
Ten to one he's already left.
"Sure, take a look," Janek said. "But apply the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Nothing fancy." :'What do you consider fancy?" ' ' if I take a little picture of you, sir?" Or pretending you know something about fishing."
Sue laughed. "How about I swagger in real hutch and tell him me and my girlfriend are looking for a very private charter?"
Could work. Clury's been out nine years. Probably doesn't know we have out-of-the-closet gay detectives now.
"Sure, try that," Janek said, "but don't forget to call in. Aaron'll be here. Ray's flying in from Texas. It's all coming together. A couple more days, we ought to have it wrapped."
He borrowed Aaron's car again, drove out to Newark. On his way he asked himself: Why am I doing this? What am I looking for?
She was painting when he arrived. They talked casually. He liked sitting on her couch, talking, watching her work, while her ceiling fan slowly stoked the air. He felt comfortable with her, as if he'd known her forever, as if there weren't anything he couldn't say.
She took a break to make some tea. After sipping in silence, she turned to him with an inquiring smile.
"What are we all about?" she asked softly.
"I've been wondering myself. What do you think?"
"The Mirror-obsessed Outlaw Artist and the Cop with the Searching Eyes.
Obviously we like each other. But why? We don't have much in common."
"Does that bother you?" She smiled. "You're very special to me. You know that."
"As you are to me."
"Still, it's strange, isn't it?"
"Strange and wonderful, I think."
"It is wonderful," she agreed. "Somehow we found each other. We didn't know we existed, but we were searching for each other anyway. Two lost souls, right?" She smiled to mock the cliche. "I feel so lucky. It's as if you've freed me. Now I can change, become the person I was meant to be." She paused. "The only thing I worry about is what I can give you in return." "Don't ever worry about that," he said. "You've given me a great deal… more than you can possibly know."
Driving back in the dark, he noticed a car following, one headlight slightly dimmer than the other. He realized he'd seen this same signature several times since he'd left Richmond Park.
Am I being followed? Is it Clury? Could he possibly move so fast?
After he emerged from the Holland Tunnel, he slowed, made sure the other car was still behind, then sped uptown, turned the corner, turned again onto empty Washington street, then quickly parked, cut his lights, pulled out his revolver and slid down in his seat.
A few seconds later the other car, a battered maroon Oldsmobile, drove by. As soon as it passed, he started up again and followed.
The other driver drove slowly. He's looking for me. Then Janek noticed him weaving. Maybe he's drunk. Maybe it isn't Clury after all.
Approaching a stoplight, Janek decided to make his move. When the other car halted, he pulled up right beside it and turned to look. Timmy Sheehan stared into his face.
Janek rolled down the window on his passenger side.
"Hi, partner! Lost?"
"Hey, partner! What're you doing out so late?"
"Pull over after the light. We'll talk about it," Janek said.
Timmy pulled over. Janek parked behind. The street was silent. There were no pedestrians. It was an area of old brick warehouses, deserted at night.
When he got out he heard the faint thud of rock music issuing from one of the unlicensed late-night basement clubs in Tribeca. Walking to Timmy's car, he felt like a traffic cop approaching a speeder he'd signaled to the curb.
He opened Timmy's car door. The interior smelled of gin. There were crumpled potato-chip bags and empty beer cans on the floor. He would have a ratty old car like that. Janek sat down in the passenger seat, shut the door.
"Why're you following me, partner?"
"Who set me up, Frank?"
Janek met his eyes. "Time's come to spill, Timmy. Why does Dakin think you're slime?"
Timmy stared at him, grinned secretively, feigned a yawn, then suddenly tried to hit him. The blow was awkward. Janek grasped hold of his fist, pushed him back behind the wheel.
"Want to punch out your old partner? What's the matter with you?"
"Fuck you, Frank!"
Timmy swung at him again, this time with more serious intent. Janek pulled back, but not far enough. Timmy's fist clipped his shoulder.
"Okay, that's enough… But Timmy didn't stop. He began to flail, his blows wild and ineffective. Janek caught them open-handed, but then his shoulder began to hurt and he grew annoyed.
He wants me to smack him. That's really what he wants.
Finally, Janek hit him back. The moment his fist flattened Timmy's lips, Timmy stopped swinging to wipe away the blood. Panting the aroma of cheap gin, he peered down at the stain on his handkerchief. Then he looked at Janek, hurt, surprised.
"You're bleeding now. That's what you wanted, isn't it? what'd you do, Timmy?" Janek spoke gently. "Better tell me. You'll feel better."
Timmy wiped his mouth again. "Maybe I took a few bucks. Who the hell cares?"
"How much? How many times?"
"One time. Maybe ten, fifteen K."