Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [98]
She kissed me hard. "You be careful."
"That's what I do best."
She kissed me again, her hand rubbing my crotch. "Second–best," she whispered.
I backed out into the street, watching the garage door close through the windshield. I couldn't see Belle in the shadows.
114
I PARKED the Plymouth near the Vista Hotel and walked to where I said I'd meet McGowan. The grenade felt heavy swinging at the end of my arm—I'd have to rig up some kind of sling when I got the chance.
I found the bench, sat down. I one–handed a wooden match out of the little box, braced it between my taped–up hand and my knee, fired it up.
McGowan's car swung in. He popped out the passenger side, walking toward me fast. I heard tires on the pavement, flicked my eyes to the side. Another dark four–door sedan. Whip antenna, two guys in front. About as undercover as a blue–and–white with roof lights.
"You're here," he greeted me.
"Like I said I would be. And all by myself too."
His smile was hard. "Volunteers. Not your problem. What happened to your hand?"
"I grabbed something I shouldn't of."
"Not the first time, huh?"
"Nope. What'd you want, McGowan?"
He fired one of his stinking cigars. "You trust me?"
"So far."
"I'm not wired. The other guys, they're backup. Not for you. For me."
"Go."
He looked straight ahead, puffing on his cigar, keeping his voice low. "A man named Robert Morgan got himself killed last night."
"Never heard of him."
"Nine–one–one call came in around midnight. Uniforms found a dead man. In the playground by the Chelsea Projects."
"So?"
"He had seven slugs in him, maybe a four–inch group, all in the chest. High–tech stuff. Whoever smoked him was a pro."
"So?"
"Nobody heard a shot. This was no punk kid running around on the roof with a .22—it was a hit."
"So?"
"The ground was all chewed up. Pieces of concrete ripped right out. The shooter had more than one target."
"This is real interesting, McGowan. Give me a light, will you?" I leaned close to his lighter. His hands were steady.
"Where were you last night, Burke?"
"With someone. Far away."
"You're sure?"
"What's the big deal?"
McGowan's cigar steamed in the morning air. It smelled as bad as his story.
"The guy had ID. That's where we got the Robert Morgan handle. Since it looked like a pro hit, they ran his prints. Nothing. The lab guy's a good man—he was on the ball. I heard from him an hour ago."
"Heard what?"
"This Robert Morgan, his prints matched one we took off the switch–car. The one that snatched the baby hooker."
"Why tell me?"
He looked straight ahead. "You're good, Burke. I think they could wire you to a polygraph and you'd never bounce the needles." He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. "This dead guy, he was in the Ghost Van. It's the first lead we got. I figure you left it there for us, but you didn't know it."
I dragged on my cigarette, waiting.
"I think you're already in the tunnel. We're coming from the other end. I don't want to meet you in the middle—somebody could get hurt."
I snapped my cigarette into the street. "Stay out of the tunnel," I told him, getting up to leave. "I'll call you."
I didn't look back.
115
NOBOBY FOLLOWED me to the Plymouth. I took the East Side Drive to 61st, hooked York Avenue, and kept on going uptown. I pulled over on 92nd, checking the clock in the window of a boutique that hadn't opened yet. Eight–thirty–five. Plenty of time.
I made a sling out of a loop of Ace bandage, holding one end in my teeth to tighten the knot. Smoked a couple of cigarettes. Mortay was tied into the Ghost Van now for sure. For dead sure. And maybe it wasn't just bodyguard work he was doing. I was in a box—I had to get him in there with me. And know where the back door was.
I watched the cigarette smoke puddle against the windshield, playing with it. I was in Family Court once, listening to Davidson sum up on a case, watching him for the UGL—they wanted to know what