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  Jojo spun around in his seat. “Listen to me, asshole. 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 crap, 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 goddamn 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 glass 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 petite, 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 shell-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 passed 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 hell do people park in Manhattan?” Jojo said as Tommy Boy drove the Buick past the precinct for the third time. “There are never any spaces on the goddamn street.”

  “The trick is to walk around first,” Tommy Boy said. “Then as soon as you find a space, 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?”

  “Dirty as it gets. They killed my brother.”

  “Son of a bitch. Cops killed Enzo?”

  “They weren’t cops back then. They were high school kids.”

  “So we find them, we tail them, and then what do we do?”

  “Nothing. You heard my old man. We do the recon. He decides what to do after that.”

  “What the hell do you think he’s gonna decide? He’s gonna whack them. The only question is who gets to do it.”

  “You volunteering?”

  “Maybe,” Tommy Boy said, pulling into a space in front of a fire hydrant. “When Pacino whacks Sollozzo and that crooked cop in the restaurant, he takes off for Sicily for a couple of years. I wouldn’t mind volunteering for that.”

  “Keep dreaming, Pacino,�
� Jojo said, taking out his iPhone and plugging the white buds into his ears. “Now keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. I need a little Springsteen.”

  Three songs into the album, Jojo ripped the buds out of his ears. “The one in front is Gideon,” he said, pointing at two men who came out of the precinct and headed toward a cluster of cop cars. They got into a black SUV and pulled out.

  “Hang back,” Jojo said. “Cops can spot a tail. Leave a little real estate between us and them.”

  Tommy Boy dropped the Buick back behind two cars. “Okay, let’s just hope these guys don’t go all lights and sirens on us, or we’re fucked.”

  There were no lights, no sirens, no drama.

  The SUV swung onto the Ed Koch Bridge, crossed the East River, turned right onto Vernon Boulevard, and stopped at San Remo, a tiny pizza parlor on the corner of 49th Avenue. Gideon went inside.

  Minutes later, he got back into the car carrying a pizza box.

  “You ever hear of this place?” Tommy Boy said. “Must be damn good if they drove all the way out here to pick up a pie at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  He followed the SUV onto Jackson. A quarter of a mile later, it hung a right onto Crane. It was a dead-end street.

  Tommy Boy waited till the two cops drove to the end of the block, pulled into a graffiti-covered garage, and closed the corrugated metal door. Then he parked behind a battered van a hundred feet away.

  Forty minutes later, the garage door opened, and the SUV backed out.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” Jojo said as the cops drove off.

  “I’m waiting for them to get out of sight,” Tommy Boy said. “Then we can go in and find out what they’ve got going on in there.”

  The SUV turned onto Jackson. “You’re gonna lose them,” Jojo yelled.

  “We won’t lose them forever. We know where they work.”

  “Follow them.”

  “Jojo, they didn’t drive all the way out to a dump like this just to split a pizza. Your father is going to want to know what the hell is going on in there.”

  “My father told us to follow them. You heard him—nothing else—niente. Now either get moving or get out, and I’ll drive.”

  Tommy Boy started the car and headed up the narrow street. “Okay, but I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  “Well, guess what, asshole?” Jojo said. “You’re paid to drive, not to think.”

  He tilted his seat back and put in his earbuds. He was listening to Bruno Mars when his cell vibrated.

  “Mom?” he said, putting his face close to the phone. “I’m busy here.”

  “Did you find them?” Teresa asked.

  “Yeah, they drove out to Long Island City to some dump.”

  “What kind of dump?” Teresa said.

  “I don’t know. Some old garage. A run-down cinder-block building on a dead-end street near the railroad yard.”

  “Why did they go there? What’s in there?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “How? As soon as they leave, go inside. Find out what they’re up to.”

  “They already left. TB and I are following them now.”

  “Are you crazy?” Teresa barked. “Don’t follow them.”

  “Don’t follow them? What are you talking about? Pop told me don’t do anything except follow them. Scope them out and report back to him.”

  “Mannaggia! You find the place where these two do their dirty business, and you decide not to check it out? What do you think ‘scope’ means?”

  Jojo pounded his fist on the dashboard. “Mom, I can’t check out the place and follow them at the same time.”

  As soon as he heard it, Tommy Boy eased his foot off the accelerator.

  “So follow them tomorrow. Today you have a chance to find out what they’re hiding in that building. Maybe it’s guns. Maybe it’s drugs from the evidence locker. Whatever it is, we know they’ll go back, and that’s when we settle accounts for Enzo. Or did you think you could just walk into a police station and take down two cops?”

  Jojo rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Let me talk to Papa.”

  “No. Stop running to your father and start using your brain. Think about it—that building is a godsend.”

  “Mom, it’s a shithole.”

  “They left my son facedown in the mud. A shithole is better than they deserve. Now check it out before they come back. I’ll deal with Papa.”

  And then, dead air.

  Jojo couldn’t believe it. She’d hung up on him.

  “Hang a U-ey,” he said. “We’re going back.”

  Tommy Boy tried not to smile as he guided the Buick into a smooth U-turn at 42nd Road. “Whatever you say, Jojo. You’re the boss.”

  Chapter 69

  When he was twelve years old, Tommy Boy’s parents sat him down and told him something they had been holding back for two years. He had an IQ of 147.

  “So?” he said.

  “So it means you’re like Einstein,” said Tommaso Montanari Sr. “Very smart. Smarter than everybody else.”

  “So?” he said again.

  “So that’s wonderful,” his mother said halfheartedly.

  “But it’s gonna be a problem,” his father said, “and you got enough shit to handle already. How tall are you now? Six one?”

  “Six two.”

  “And you’re only twelve,” his father said. “So you’re gonna stand out. Kids will make fun of you like you’re some kind of freak.”

  Tommy Boy’s eyes teared up. “You mean like calling me Big Bird?”

  “Those assholes,” Montanari said. “What are they all, like five foot nothing, eighty-five pounds soaking wet? They’re jealous. They want you to feel like crap because you’re built like a man, and they’re not. You know why your mother and I didn’t tell you about this IQ thing when we first found out?”

  Tommy Boy shook his head.

  “Because we wanted you to feel normal. Bad enough you’re bigger than everybody else. Worse if they know you’re smarter. People hate your guts when they think you’re better than them.”

  The tears spilled over and trickled down the boy’s cheeks. “So what do I do?”

  Montanari looked at his wife. He knew the question would be coming, and his answer was simple: Kick the shit out of the little bastards, and you’ll see how fast they start showing you some respect.

  But that didn’t fly with Angela. So, using all the parenting skills they had, they came up with another solution.

  “Look, kiddo,” he said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder, “you can’t pretend to be short, but you can pretend to be dumb.”

  “Not dumb,” his mother corrected. “Just not so smart. You’ll fit in more.”

  It turned out to be not such bad advice, especially when he started working for Jojo. The man was clueless, but as long as Tommy Boy played the happy-go-lucky buffoon, Jojo felt superior.

  Only one person figured out how smart he was. Papa Joe. Nothing got past him.

  “You’re dumb like a fox,” he said one night when Tommy Boy was driving him to Bernice’s place.

  Tommy froze at the wheel.

  “Don’t worry,” Salvi said. “Right now all I need is your muscle. But I like knowing you have a good head on your shoulders for when the time comes.”

  When the time comes. Tommy Boy had waited, and this was the time. Eliminating the two bastards who killed Enzo would make his bones with Joe Salvi forever. And the payback wouldn’t be some bullshit two-year vacation in Sicily like he told Jojo. It would be a spot in the organization. A real spot. Then he could stop acting.

  “You got a game plan yet?” Tommy Boy asked Jojo as he turned back onto Crane Street.

  “Break the lock, go in, look around, take pictures with the cell phone if we see anything, then go back to Howard Beach.”

  “Good idea,” Tommy Boy said. “Except maybe I could pick the lock instead of breaking it, so they won’t know we were here.”
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br />   “Of course we pick the lock,” Jojo said. “That’s what I meant. I just didn’t think I had to spell it out for you.”

  They parked the car and walked to the back of the building. The lock was amateur hour, and Tommy had it open in seconds. The room was long and narrow, no more than four feet deep.

  There were two mismatched chairs and a small folding table with a stack of audio equipment on it. Nothing worth stealing. Then Tommy Boy spotted the peepholes.

  “Over here,” he whispered, pointing at the wall in front of them. “Whatever is going on in there, they watch from back here.”

  There were two narrow openings cut into the Sheetrock at eye level. Tommy Boy had to crouch down to peer through one of them.

  Jojo didn’t even bother to look. He waited for Tommy Boy to tell him if it was worth the effort. But the big man didn’t say a word. He just stared at the woman in the Hazmat suit who was chained to a pipe. The pizza box from San Remo was on the floor, most of it not eaten, and there was a video camera in front of her. He put it all together in a heartbeat, and when he did, he felt as if he’d just walked into King Tut’s tomb.

  “What the hell is so damn interesting?” Jojo said, pressing his forehead against the second spy window.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “What the—”

  “Shhh. Don’t let her hear you.”

  “These guys are cops? They got some real freaky shit going on,” Jojo said in a harsh whisper. “What do you think we should do?”

  Tommy Boy pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Who you calling?” Jojo said.

  “Nobody,” Tommy whispered. “Getting pictures.”

  He put the phone up against one of the openings and started clicking. After he’d collected a dozen shots, he put the phone back in his pocket. “Let’s blow this place,” he said.

  “Are you crazy?” Jojo said. “Are you looking at what I’m looking at? They’ve got some broad chained to a pole. Should we go in? Should we cut her down? We should at least find out who she is.”

  Tommy Boy stepped away from the wall. “I know who she is, dammit, and trust me, this is a lot bigger than me and you. We need to talk to your father.”