Devin pushed his rickety shopping cart near the street, trying to avoid the people hurrying by. They were just as happy to avoid him; he looked like he smelled bad, and he did.
He stopped at a trash can and picked through it, looking for aluminum cans to recycle.
The young mobsters approached the old man slowly. They glanced at each other, trying to look cool, but they were both thinking the same thing: These street people could be batshit crazy. “Hey, old man. Hey.”
Devin looked at them warily. “What?”
“We’re looking for somebody.”
“I ain’t nobody.” He backed away slowly, pushing his cart behind him.
“Not you, old man. We’re looking for a street kid. Calls himself Cash. Cash Clay.”
“Cash Clay?” Devin stopped retreating and blinked up at them. “Cassius Clay? The boxer? He homeless now, too?”
The two young men looked at each other. “What?”
“The boxer. You don’t know?”
“No. Look, old man, we’re looking for a kid. Just a punk kid. Not a boxer. Cash Clay. You ever heard of him?”
“Nope. Heard of Cassius Clay, though. Everybody heard of him.”
Torres men drew out a business card. It just had a first name, Leonardo, and a phone number on it. He liked to pass them out to girls in the clubs. That wasn’t his real name, and he changed his phone number every few weeks, but the cards were cheap. “If you hear about him, you let me know, okay?”
Devin looked at him sidelong.
The shorter one pulled out his wallet and handed the man a ten dollar bill. “You call us, okay?”
The man took the card and the money and put them way, way down in his shirt. “Sure.”
As soon as they were out of sight, he took the two papers back out again. “Huh,” he said, reading the card. “Huh.” Then he put it away again, took the ten dollars and looked for the nearest corner store.
***
Carter paused at the door of the café to get a read on the place. It was almost empty. A very big guy wearing a white apron stood by the front door, evidently keeping people out. He looked her over, looked at Fusco, and didn’t say anything. Fusco didn’t seem to notice him. He barreled into the coffee shop. A young woman stood up from the table “ there were only a handful of people there ¬” and the detective wrapped her in a bear hug.
Which was weird, Carter thought, but it was weirder that the woman put her arms around him and hugged him right back. It was kind of nice to see Fusco getting a little love. She got the feeling it was rare for him.
Too bad that’s our murder suspect, she thought. She was the only one there that fit the description she had of Fitzgerald.
The uniformed patrolman stood up from the table, and Carter did a double-take. He looked younger than Taylor. He was Hispanic, dark hair and eyes, but his skin was too pale and his eyes were too bright. He looked scared.
“Uhhhh …” he began.
He had a couple badly-concealed acne spots, and the faint medicated scent that she knew from her teenage son was Oxy-10. She couldn’t believe someone had given the boy a gun. Of course, he couldn’t really be as young as he looked. It was still jarring.
She flashed her badge. “Detective Carter, Homicide Task Force. This is Detective Fusco.”
“Oh. Oh.” He didn’t look any less confused. The fact that Fusco was still literally squeezing the suspect didn’t help. “I’m, uh … uh, Sanchez. Joe Sanchez.”
At the table, the old woman stirred. “Do we have to go now?” she asked faintly.
The younger woman pulled away from Fusco. “Not yet, Mrs. Antonucci. You’re fine. We’re going to talk. You stay with Father and finish your tea.”
“Oh. Alright, then.”
Carter looked the old woman over. She was very thin, drawn. Looked like she might be in pain. She held herself stiffly, as if she didn’t want to move at all. She was dressed in an old but very fine black brocade suit, and held a worn silver rosary between her fingers.
The priest was middle-aged, a bit on the pudgy side. He looked concerned, but calm. He was keeping it together.
Besides the four at the table and a very big man by the door, the café was empty.
Fitzgerald gestured the detectives over to the bar, far enough that the old woman couldn’t hear them if they kept their voices down. Fusco kept his hand on her arm. At the bar he said, quietly, “What the hell, Scottie? Whose husband did you kill?”
Instead of answering, she shot her free hand out, grabbed the young officer by the front of his shirt, and pulled him close. “One job, Officer Jailbait. You had one job.”
His cheeks went pink. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I called it in right, I swear I did, I was really really specific …”
She sighed extravagantly, released him, smoothed his shirt, and turned back to Fusco. “I didn’t kill anybody’s husband. Thanks for asking.”
“So who did?” Carter asked. She looked back toward the priest and the old woman. “Her?”
“That’s, uh, that Mrs. Antonucci,” Sanchez explained. “She, um, she went to her priest first thing this morning and confessed that she’d killed her husband. He brought her here and they placed a called to the precinct. My training officer and I responded …”
“Who’s your training officer?” Fusco interrupted.
“Helms. Jack Helms.”
“Good man,” Carter commented. “You’re lucky.”
Sanchez smiled fleetingly. “Yeah, that’s what everybody says … “
The young woman moved around the end of the bar. “Coffee?”
“Please,” Fusco said emphatically.
She looked to Carter.
“Sure,” Carter answered. And then, “I’m Joss Carter.” She stuck her hand out.
“Christine Fitzgerald. But everybody calls me Scottie.” The woman had a decent handshake. A lot of women didn’t. “It’s nice to meet you.” She got mugs from the shelf, poured one straight for Fusco, added cream but no sugar to one for Carter.
“You know how I take my coffee,” Carter commented uneasily.
The young woman smiled reassuringly. “I’m big on details.” She gestured to Sanchez. “Go on.”
He nodded. Christine’s manner with him was light, teasing, like a big sister, and he seemed reassured by it. “I … uh … right. So Helms and I responded, and, uh, we found the body at the reported address, and he, uh … we found the body and …” He went pale again.
“And Helms sent you here to keep an eye on the suspect,” Carter supplied, “while he waited for CSU.”
He nodded, grateful. “Yes. Yes. And I, uh, I called the report in to the precinct and I was really specific, just like she said …”
Christine poured another mug, only half-full. She poured in a quarter cup of cream and a lot of sugar. She stirred it, pushed it toward Sanchez.
He reached for it. His hand shook visibly.
“First DB?” Carter asked.
“First … oh, dead body. Yeah. Yeah.”
Fusco shook his head. “You’ll be okay, kid. Drink your coffee. The sugar will help.”
Christine looked over his shoulder and said, very softly, “Yeah, but he won’t.”
“What?” Sanchez asked. His voice edged toward panic. “What?”
The woman gestured, and police all turned. Special Agent Donnelly was striding across the bar toward them. “What the hell?” Fusco muttered. “He still hassling you?”
Christine shrugged. “We’ve reached an understanding.” She reached for yet another mug.
***
From the alley across the street, Reese watched through the lens of his camera. “You were right, Finch. Our friend Donnelly is here.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Reese, he is no friend of yours.”
“At least he wants to take me alive.”
“I believe he added the qualifier, ‘if possible’.”
“He’s just doing his job, Finch.”
“I suppose so,” Finch admitted reluctantly. “At least we know Miss Fitzgerald didn’t kill anyone.”
“No. We only know that Miss Fitzgerald didn’t kill Mrs. Antonucci’s husband. ”
“I suppose you’re right. I am rather curious as to why Mrs. Antonucci did, though.”
“I’m sure we’ll find out.” Reese looked through the lens one more time. “Keep me posted. I’m going to see if I can track down Edward Clay.” He clicked off his ear piece and trotted back to his car.
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