Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [76]
I parked the Plymouth where I could move it easily if I had to. I told Flood, “That was childish. You’re a real adolescent. Give me your coat.”
“What for?”
“Because we’re going to walk up the steps, and people besides the D.A. will be watching, right? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to wear that outfit after all. But stop being a baby, okay?”
Flood said okay, handed me the coat, and turned to go. I checked to see nobody was around, then dropped an old business card on the ground. My arms were full of Flood’s coat and briefcase, so I said “Grab that, will you, Flood? When she bent at the waist to pick it off the ground, I gave her a healthy smack with the hand she’d squeezed. It was like slapping a side of beef—the pain shot from my hand right up my arm. Flood straightened up like nothing had happened, giggled and said, “Used the wrong hand, huh?” She wiggled off ahead of me and after we got about ten feet said, “Want to give me my coat back now?” I did and I wouldn’t think Flood was dumb anymore. At least not about some things.
Toby stood up when we came through his door. He always dresses the same day or night, whether he’s on trial in Supreme Court or sitting around his office listening to political discussions: Brand X three piece-suit, solid-color buttondown shirt, striped tie, wingtip shoes. Toby has a thick mustache but it doesn’t make him look any older than he really is—late thirties, I’d guess. His image is perfect for juries: solid, respectable, middle-class, not flashy or arrogant. Toby’s not a man with major resentments about his life. He’s not crazy about the fact that some defense attorneys who couldn’t carry his briefcase make five times the money he does, but he lives with it. No politician, his rise through the office has been steady if not spectacular. He doesn’t like criminals much, but he doesn’t stay up nights planning how he’s going to stop them all by himself. But he doesn’t like baby-rapers a whole lot. Maybe because he has little ones of his own—I don’t know. I do know he’s sincere about it—I’ve worked with him before. Toby held out his hand.
“Mr. Lawrence, good to see you. And this is Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yeah, this is the little woman,” I said, carefully keeping clear of Flood’s reach.
“What’s on?”
“There a guy, Martin Howard Wilson, who rapes babies for fun and profit. Without boring you with a long story, we’d like to find him.”
“Why come to me?”
“He was indicted over here for sodomizing a kid. The kid died. So did the indictment. I figure he rolled over on somebody and maybe there was good enough reason for your people to let him go, okay? But he didn’t pay for what he did and I represent some people who think he should.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“About the people, no. About the maggot, sure. I got a decent physical description, approximate age, last known whereabouts, even an alias. Calls himself The Cobra, if you’re ready for that.”
“What else?”
“Toby, he’s got a blank docket number.”
Toby said “Oh,” and sat back to think. I’d checked Flood’s lists and there was a complete run of docket numbers in sequence for the arraignment and indictment days when Wilson made his appearances, but one number was missing. Both Toby and I knew what that meant, and if the federales didn’t have this freak holed up in their so-called Witness Protection Program the Manhattan D.A. should know where to find him, or at least what he looked like. But it was a lot to ask, and Toby and I both knew it.
“Your people who want to find this guy . . . he steal money from them or something?”
“Something.”
“Why should I do this, Burke?”
“Lawrence.”
“Lawrence. Why should I do this?”
“Because this guy has a special racket. He works the daycare centers, the babysitting gigs, the foster-care scam, the runaway-youth hostels, the sheltered workshops, the group homes. You know the routine—he’s a disaffected Vietnam vet