Detective Sergeant Wendy Ma was leaning against the doorway of the detectives’ coffee room on the second floor of the yellow-brick precinct house, watching Jerry Boynton struggle with a bag of coffee and a filter pack. The machine was flat-out refusing to brew a pot of coffee for him, and he resented it, took it personally. His round face was slightly shiny, and his forehead was wrinkled in concentration. Now and then a whispered curse would hiss out from between his tightened lips.
Outside, the weather was grim, gray, and chilly. They had the overhead fluorescents on, and they’d stay on until May or June. A cold rain was falling over the South Bronx, and the coffee in Wendy’s hands was about the only warm spot in the world right now. One of the PWs assigned to prisoner searches stepped up and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Phone, Detective Ma.”
Wendy smiled at Boynton, watched the big black man in the dark blue suit, the intensity with which he attacked every mechanical problem. As she walked away, she said, over her shoulder, “Jerry.… Jerry?”
He turned, sent her a hard look, his surprising hazel eyes narrowed.
“Yeah?”
“Jorge was in last night, for the cleaning?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So Jorge always unplugs the machine to clean it.”
Jerry Boynton stared at her for another second, then looked back at the machine. “Fart,” was all he said.
Wendy went back to her desk and picked up the phone.
“Ma, Detectives.”
“Ma, Zitto. I can’t believe I finally got you.”
Wendy’s sudden delighted smile caught the attention of a couple of her colleagues, who grinned at each other across their desks.
“Great to hear from you too. How’s it going on the road?”
“Good, good—hook ’em and book ’em. Look, Wendy—hey, I miss you, you know that?”
“Thanks,” said Wendy. “Me too.”
She was extremely aware of the other cops in the room, the curious silence in the noisy squad room. She heard a wild roaring hissing sound, and the chuff of air brakes.
“Where are you?”
“1-90 rest stop west of Syracuse. Look, Wendy, can I ask you a favor?”
“Name it.”
“Okay. How you fixed with the DOI?”
“Average. We don’t bowl together or anything, Luke. Why?”
“You remember that DOI BOLO? The Yellow Man? No name? No DOB? You figured it was a honey trap?”
“Jeez, totally slipped my mind. Of course I do. Possible first name of Ernesto. I tried that on every system. I need more than just the first name and a description. You know, they have like twenty-one thousand non-U.S. prisoners, half of them are from Mexico or Colombia. A lot of guys named Ernesto, Luke. A lot of bad skin and Indian features.”
“Well, I worked that out.”
“How? How in the hell—?”
“Guy I knew in D.C., he had a way. I didn’t ask him what. Got a pen?”
Wendy reached for her notebook, tucking the phone under her chin. Luke read her out the full name and DOB of Ernesto Quijunque, a.k.a. Crow. Told her a little bit of his story. Wendy listened in silence.
“Okay,” she said. “Got that. Now what do you want me to do?”
“You can talk?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“You’re looking for Roderigo Gardena, right? The guy who was missing from La Luna Negra?”
“Oh yeah. Very.”
“So’s Quijunque. So what comes next, it’s gonna put you in the same territory. You gotta be careful, right?”
“Thank you for stating the blindingly obvious. If Quijunque is the guy who did that—did what I saw at La Luna Negra, then I’d say he’s a bad guy. But this makes him my guy, Luke. Not yours.”
“If you can get him, that’s fine. I don’t think you will. Now, Jerry Boynton there, he knows Manny Obregon, right? Okay, I want you to ask Jerry to call Manny’s lawyer. You know who that is?”
“Yeah. Lucinda Miijas. Everybody up here knows her.”
“Get him to make the call from a pay phone, because she’ll have call display. Ask him to say his name is Roderigo Gardena, and have him ask for Ernesto Quijunque. By name.”
“What’s that gonna do?”
“No idea. None at all. But it’ll rock them. If Reed Endicott is connected to this thing at all, he’ll freak when he hears those names. I know the guy. If Rona’s anywhere in the mix, Endicott will try to get him moved. Just watch them all, watch them close. Somebody will break for cover. I can feel it. Can you work it? Will you work it?”
Wendy said nothing.
Luke looked over his shoulder, saw two tan cars rolling up the entrance ramp to the rest station.
“Luke … this is flaky. I’m not—”
“Then you call, call from the station there, give it a half-hour, tell her who you are, the whole official number, and you ask for information on a Jeep Cherokee, dark green, Virginia marker Tango Zulu Bravo one five one one, registered to one of Mojica’s companies, called Chesapeake Realty. Say the Jeep was seen in the vicinity of the King’s Plaza Shopping Center down by Sheepshead Bay, and the driver matched a description of a guy you’re looking for in connection with a killing in the Four-One. Don’t name him.”
Wendy was looking across the squad room at Jerry Boynton. Boynton was leaning against the coffee lounge door and watching her carefully. She raised a hand, held up two fingers. He nodded and sipped at his cup, his eyes still on her.
“Okay so far. Now what?”
“Then get down to the King’s Plaza Marina. Take Boynton, park yourself somewhere, and watch. Something will happen. The DOI will be all over the place, so be cool. But make sure they see you. That’s vital.”
“How will I explain being there?”
“The DOI sent a BOLO, the last time the guy was seen was around that marina, and now the guy’s ID matches a guy wanted for a triple hit at the Four-One. I absolutely guarantee you that they have Roderigo Gardena—I mean Paolo Rona—in some hotel. Bluff the bastards, Wendy. If you can’t get them to tell you where, you’re not the cop I know you are. Then call me at … 351-9399 … that’s Grizzly Dalton’s cell phone. He’s on roam, so it’ll ring wherever we are. Will you do all that? Especially the marina?”
Luke heard car doors slamming, heard Grizzly’s big voice booming across the tarmac, calling him. Wendy heard it too.
“Okay … but I’m gonna cover myself, Luke. If I step into a tar pit, yours will be the first ankle I reach for. You better go.”
“Wendy, I thank you.”
“Bye-bye, Luke … love you.”
Luke’s belly leaped.
Fear or joy, he could not say.
“Wendy, I love you back. ’Bye.”