Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [113]
“And you told him about me and the Apaches.” It wasn’t a question. It was the quiet, firm statement of a homicide detective.
“I thought he was somebody I could trust.” Joe now wiped at his own tears.
“He’s a dirty cop, Joe.” Mrs. Columbo reached down to hold her husband in her arms. “There’s no way for you to have known that. But he went out and did what any dirty cop does. He called the people who pay him and told them who we were.”
“I didn’t go see Lavetti because I wanted you caught.” Joe buried his head in his wife’s robe. “I went because I was scared I was going to lose you.”
“You were never in any danger of losing me, Joe,” Mary said quietly. “I put my years in with you and I did it for only one reason. The only reason worth doing it—I loved you.”
“And do you still love me?” Joe asked. He stared into his wife’s eyes, searching for the answer before he heard it.
“You have to deal with what you did,” Mrs. Columbo answered. “And what you did was lay a death warrant on the whole team. You have to stand for that.”
“That’s the cop answer,” Joe said. “I’m looking for the wife answer.”
“It’s the same answer,” Mrs. Columbo said.
• • •
BOOMER SAT BEHIND the wheel of the dark Buick, window down to let in the moist spring air, looking across at Mrs. Columbo’s house. Though he was never much of a smoker, he wished he had a cigarette. He settled for two slices of Wrigley’s Doublemint instead, chewing each piece slowly, rolling the foil into a ball and dropping it into the empty ash tin.
Boomer was a fastidious man who liked to do things in orderly fashion. He was one of the few action cops whose paperwork was always properly filled out and submitted within hours of an arrest. He hated surprises and he despised mistakes, and now here he was, sitting in the middle of both.
Boomer looked up when he heard the front door slam and saw Mrs. Columbo race down the steps, an overnight bag in her hand. She stepped around the front of the car, opened the passenger-side door, and slid in. Boomer kicked over the engine and pulled out of the spot.
They didn’t say a word until they reached the Midtown Tunnel tolls.
“It was Joe,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“What was Joe?” Boomer asked.
“He’s the one you’re going to be looking for.” Mrs. Columbo tried hard not to burst into tears. “He went to see Deputy Inspector Lavetti and told him about us.”
“He say why he did it?” Boomer asked softly.
“Because he loves me,” Mrs. Columbo said, turning her face to the passing traffic.
Boomer shifted the car away from the toll lines and pulled it over to the side of the road, inches from a red brick wall. He looked over at the cars heading into the city, his mind filled with too many unanswered questions and little time to get them resolved. He now had an enemy in the one place he never thought he needed to worry about—inside NYPD headquarters. He spit the gum out the open window and ran a hand across his tired eyes, for the first time starting to wonder if forming the Apaches was a risk worth taking. In their short time together, Boomer realized how vulnerable the unit was—prone to error, open to the unsuspecting nature of clandestine work—their individual strengths as active cops weakened by their wounds and the passage of time.
“He’s not like us, Boomer,” Mrs. Columbo said. “He’s got more heart than brains.”
“How much do they know?” is all he asked.
“They know I’m going to Maine.”
Her face was sad and tired, the lights from the toll booths highlighting the fine features and running mascara. Boomer had always had warm feelings toward Mrs. Columbo. More than warm, if he was honest with himself. He admired the woman almost as much as he did the cop. There was always a relaxed ease to their friendship, with mild hints of sexual attraction.
“No,” Boomer told her. “They know you were going to Maine.”
“You can’t call this off,” she said, grabbing his arm and holding it tight.
“It’s too dangerous. They’ll be there waiting.”
“We’ve spent our lives going