IT DOESN’T HELP TO BE PROVED RIGHT. Though not a deathbed confession, the letter supports my theory Marcus is responsible for Miranda’s death.
After reading the note, I make my way north along 7th. Turning left at 6th Street, I pass the Methodist Hospital. Methodist is a modern facility close to home. Good thing, because at this moment my cardiovascular system is going into full scale, nuclear reactor-style meltdown.
My anger for Stella Walker is epic, my sympathy non-existent. They say it’s bad Karma to speak ill of the dead, but right now I damn her straight to Hell. She’s in good company, though, because Marcus is right behind her. Maybe me, too.
But at this moment anger and recrimination isn’t helpful as either emotion or incentive.
At the corner of 6th and 6th—6th Street and 6th Ave—situated inconspicuously among a row of brownstone buildings and walk-ups is a walk-in medical clinic. Next door to the clinic is a locksmith-pawnshop storefront combination. At the gated security door to the storefront, I ring a bell.
Once inside, I’m greeted by a blast of Arctic air from an AC unit running full-tilt. Standing at the counter is a man with a jeweler’s loupe to his eye inspecting a chunky gold bracelet. His shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow exposing a set of meaty, hairy forearms that belie his otherwise diminutive stature.
Ari Lippmann is a former rabbi, biblical scholar, and cop-friendly Jew who lost a wife and a daughter to 9-1-1. After 9-1-1 Ari said, Fuck This! Banished by Synagogue, he ventured forth with a series of fiery public proclamations on the evil of Islam. He even wrote a book.
Over the years, Ari has failed to recover either his equilibrium or his faith. But he helps out where, when, and as he can. Mostly in aid of good cops needing self-defence or access to a locked room where a warrant cannot be expediently obtained.
Without looking up, he says, “Mr. Detective, you look in need of refreshment.” Ari removes the loupe and makes eye contact. “Or assistance?”
“Both.”
Ari sets down the bracelet and the loupe. Carefully, he wraps both in a soft cloth. Ari returns the loupe to a locked drawer beneath the counter-top and the bracelet to a massive Mosler antique floor safe. He closes the door on the safe, throws down the latch, and rotates the tumbler.
“Ah,” he says, and beckons with a crooked finger for me to follow.
In the back room, Ari opens a small bar fridge, offers a selection of Coke, Diet Coke, soda water, and milk.
“For the ulcer.”
“No Dr. Pepper?”
Ari makes a sour face. We drink and catch up.
Downing the last of a glass of milk, he says, “How can I be of service, Mr. Detective?”
Explaining to Ari what I need, I pass him four thousand in cash I’d withdrawn earlier from an ATM near my apartment, a grand shy of my daily limit.
Feeling like Liam Neeson, I exit to the street a half hour later packing a fully loaded seventeen round Glock 17 in a holster clipped to my belt. A second 17 is in a holster strapped to my calf, and a third 17 in a familiar location in a holster strapped to my chest.