Chapter 66.

Joe Salvi was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Daily News and sipping his second cup of coffee. There were three cell phones in front of him.

"What are you grinning about?" Teresa said from across the room.

Joe hadn't realized he was smiling. But that was the way it was whenever he spent time with his goomah. Bernice always made him happy, and last night had been no different. Mama was right. Forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.

Last night, after they made love, Bernice curled up against him and whispered in his ear. "Joe...the s.e.x..."

She let it hang there. He waited, but she didn't finish the sentence.

It was a tease. He took the bait. "What about it?" he said.

She nibbled on his ear. "It was age appropriately fantastic."

He belly-laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. Bernice was the only one who could come up with something like that, much less say it. He had been reliving the moment when Teresa caught him smiling.

One of the cell phones vibrated, neutralizing her curiosity. "Pick it up," she said, as though maybe he wouldn't if she weren't there to give him orders.

He answered. "Good morning."

The voice on the other end said only one thing. A number.

Salvi repeated it. "You're sure," he stated clearly.

The caller knew it was a question. A brief pause, and then Salvi said, "Grazie. Ciao."

He tossed the phone to his son, who was standing at the sink. Jojo soaked the cell in cold water, then dropped it into the trash masher beneath the counter.

"You found him?" Teresa asked.

"Both of them," Salvi said. "They work together. Same precinct."

"So you want me and Tommy Boy to deal with them?" Jojo said.

At the sound of his name, Tommy Boy squared his shoulders and tugged at the sleeves of his Forzieri leather jacket. He was born Tommaso Benito Montanari, the same as his father, so they called him Tommy Boy from birth. Twenty-six years later, he was six feet eight and 275 pounds, but he was still Tommy Boy. His eyes locked in on Papa Joe for an answer to Jojo's question.

"No," Salvi said. "We're not ready to deal with anything. For now, you just follow them, and let me know what they do, where they go."

"What if they split up?" Jojo said. "Should we take two cars just in case?"

"Two cars?" Joe said. "Good idea. And while you're at it, get some horses, a bra.s.s band, and some of those big f.u.c.king balloons. What are you thinking? I said tail them, not start a parade. If they split up, stay with this Gideon. Scope him out and report back to me. But don't do anything."

"What if the opportunity presents itself? I could-"

"Did I say anything about opportunity? No. I said, do not do anything. Non fare niente. Niente. You clear on that?"

Jojo looked at Teresa and shrugged.

Salvi caught the exchange. "I don't give a s.h.i.t what your mother asked for," he said. "His head on a silver platter, his b.a.l.l.s in a gla.s.s jar-I don't care. I want him and his friend together, and then I'll decide where we go from there. You clear on that?"

"Yeah, Pop, I'm clear."

Joe turned to Tommy Boy. "These two you're following-they're cops. They got eyes in the back of their heads. So drive smart."

"Maybe I should take Mrs. Salvi's car," Tommy Boy said. "The Buick. It's beige. It won't stand out like the Escalade."

Joe tapped two fingers to his temple. "Now you're thinking. Get moving."

The two men went to the garage, and Tommy Boy moved the driver's seat in the Buick all the way back so he could squeeze in.

Jojo got in on the pa.s.senger side. "Maybe I should take Mrs. Salvi's car," he mimicked, doing his best to imitate Tommy Boy's deadpan delivery.

"Did I do something wrong?" Tommy said.

"My father p.i.s.ses all over everything I say, so you have to act like some kind of consigliere? You're a soldier, Tommy Boy. Nothing more."

"Come on, man," Tommy Boy said, turning left onto Cross Bay Boulevard. "I'm almost thirty years old. I'm family. I'm too smart to be a soldier all my life."

Jojo spun around in his seat. "Listen to me, a.s.shole. You're twenty-six years old, which doesn't count as almost thirty. You're married to my mother's cousin's daughter, so you're not blood family. And if you were as smart as you think you are, you wouldn't try to show me up in front of my old man."

Tommy Boy laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"You. It's the same thing every time with you, Jojo. Your old man treats you like c.r.a.p, so you take it out on me. It's called transference."

"And you know what this is called?" Jojo said, sticking up his middle finger. "It's called shut up and drive to the G.o.dd.a.m.n police station."

"Sure thing, Jojo. Maybe when we get there I can run in and pick us up a parade permit."

Chapter 67.

If you're going to get shot in New York City, Harlem Hospital is one of the best places you can go. It's a Level 1 Trauma Center conveniently located only six blocks from where Shawn Hooks took three bullets.

It's also one of the most architecturally striking new buildings in the city. One entire gla.s.s facade-six stories high and a city block long-is covered with reproductions of colorful murals originally commissioned by the WPA during the Depression and painted by African American artists. It's a symbol of community pride on the outside, but I knew that the harsh realities of the street were waiting for us inside.

Alma Hooks was pet.i.te, no more than five feet at best. She was physically fit, but judging by the drawn face, the red eyes, and the clenched hands, she was emotionally whipped.

She stood up as soon as we entered the room. "Thank you for coming. Did Delia explain?"

"Yes, she did. And thank you for calling us," I said. "How's your son doing?"

"He's still in pain, but the nurse gave him another shot of Toradol an hour ago. He's a strong boy. The doctors say it'll take time, but he'll be fine."

"And how are you doing?" Kylie said.

"Me? I'm sh.e.l.l-shocked. I haven't slept since they called me Tuesday night. But I'm grateful."

"And you called because you think Shawn may have witnessed a crime?" I said.

"The Tin Man," she said. "Antoine Tinsdale. He was a drug dealer. He corrupted these neighborhood boys something awful. You raise them with good values, teach them to do the right thing, then he comes along dressed like a rock star, driving a Mercedes, and he promises them the moon, and they fall for it. They're just kids."

She didn't say whether or not Shawn was one of the kids Tinsdale had corrupted. She was simply underscoring what we already knew-these young drug runners were more victims than criminals. I was glad Cates had made a deal with her. I wouldn't have wanted to be the cop who dug into her son's past and possibly damaged his future.

"I'm not saying I'm sorry to see Tinsdale off the streets for good," Alma said, looking at her son rather than at us, "but kidnapping him and killing him is no kind of justice. Not the kind of message you want to send to your children."

"Can we ask your son some questions?" I said.

Shawn, who was under the covers, looked to be over six feet and close to two hundred pounds, but clearly the tiny woman at his side was in charge.

"Go ahead," she said, still looking at Shawn. "He's agreed to help in your investigation."

"Shawn, my name is Detective Jordan, and this is my partner, Detective MacDonald. Whatever you say is just between us. We'll try to make this brief. When did you last see Antoine Tinsdale?"

Shawn froze. Confessing to your mother is culturally acceptable. Talking to the cops isn't.

Alma sat on the bed and stroked his forehead. "Go ahead, baby," she said. "They're cool. They're friends of Miss Delia. Tell them when you last saw Antoine Tinsdale."

"The night they took him."

"Thank you," she said, and pa.s.sed the torch back to me with a single tilt of her head.

"Who took him?" I asked.

"Two cops. They picked him up at 136th and Amsterdam."

"How did you know they were cops?" I said.

"They cuffed him. At first just one guy got out of the car and talked to him, but then the Tin Man, he started in with 'Whoa-wait a minute here-' like he didn't want to go. But then the driver, he comes around, cuffs him, and the two of them shove him into the back of their car."

"A squad car?" I asked.

"Unmarked. A black SUV."

"Make and model?"

"I don't know. It was dark. I could tell it was an SUV from the shape, but that's all."

"Did you see what these two men looked like?"

"White guys."

"Could you describe them?"

"Just regular white guys in suits. They were tall, but only regular tall, not like NBA tall. That's all I could see. I wasn't close enough to see anything else."

"Do you think if we brought you some mug shots, something might jar your memory?" I asked.

"I don't have any memory," Shawn said. "I told you. I didn't see faces."

"Was there anyone else with you who might have seen more?" Kylie asked.

The boy was done. He looked at his mother. She too seemed to be coming to the end of her civic responsibility rope.

"Detectives," Alma said, "my son has been forthright with you. He says that on the night Mr. Tinsdale disappeared, he saw two police officers take him into custody. It certainly didn't look like a crime to Shawn, so he didn't report it. That's all he knows. If somebody else saw something, they can volunteer just like he did. Do you have any more questions?"

"No, Mrs. Hooks," I said. "You've both been extremely helpful. If you think of anything else, please give me a call."

I reached into my jacket pocket to get one of my cards. My hand brushed against an envelope. Just before I'd left the office, I had decided to bring along some mug shots. Four of them were random middle-aged white criminals that I pulled out of my files. The other two were the ones I hoped young Shawn would finger. I fished out a business card and handed it to Mrs. Hooks.

"That's not necessary," she said, returning it. "If I think of anything else, I'll call your boss."

My boss? I had to admire Alma Hooks. She was fiercely protective of her son, and once he'd given us all he was going to give, she dismissed us with a little reminder that Kylie and I answered to her buddy Miss Delia.

I shoved the card back into my pocket, next to the pictures of my two best suspects-Donovan and Boyle.

Chapter 68.

"Where the h.e.l.l do people park in Manhattan?" Jojo said as Tommy Boy drove the Buick past the precinct for the third time. "There are never any s.p.a.ces on the G.o.dd.a.m.n street."

"The trick is to walk around first," Tommy Boy said. "Then as soon as you find a s.p.a.ce, you get somebody to lay down in it, and you run out and buy a car."

Jojo didn't laugh. "You think this job is funny, TB?"

"I don't think anything, Jojo. I don't even know what this job is except we're tailing two cops. You want to fill me in? Are they dirty?"