2

Two uniformed cops arrived at McGill’s two minutes after the shooting. They had been only a block away, on a break, getting a slice, when they got the call. They arrived at McGill’s so fast that the customers who’d been in the bar when the shooting occurred were still there, most of them standing, freaked out by what they’d seen. One of the cops was a bright Irish kid named Murphy—son of a cop, grandson of a cop.

Murphy walked over to the victim and checked for a pulse, knowing before he checked that he was wasting his time.

He called out, “What did the shooter look like? Anyone. Tell me quick.”

A woman near the door said, “He was white, not very tall, maybe five six, dark hair, clean-shaven, dark sport jacket, probably blue.”

Murphy said to his partner, “Get that description to dispatch. The guy might be out there walking, maybe toward the subway or looking for a cab. Tell them to get cars patrolling a three-, four-block radius around this place to see it they can spot him. And to be careful—he’s armed. Then call back to the precinct and get someone started on calling cab companies to see if they picked up a short white guy in a dark sport jacket near this bar. Go!” His partner, who was older than Murphy but used to taking orders from him, did what he was told.

Murphy looked at the customers, who were all potential witnesses, and said, “Okay. Now I want all of you to sit down exactly where you were when the shooting happened.” Nobody moved. “Go on,” Murphy said. “Sit down. Nobody’s leaving until the detectives get here, and they’ll be here in just a few minutes to take statements from you.”

The detectives showed up fifteen minutes later, a couple of hefty old warhorses named Coghill and Dent, both two years from retirement. The first thing they did was stand in the doorway and take in the room, which was larger than expected from the outside. They noticed that the place was dimly lit, but bright enough for them to make out people’s faces. Along one wall was a bar with twenty or so high-backed leather stools, and to the right of the bar was a small stage containing a baby grand and an acoustic guitar on a stand. They’d seen a poster near the entrance that said a pianist would start playing at eight and that at nine some singer they’d never heard of would be performing.

The entertainment probably explained why the place was so dark, with most of the illumination coming from small lights set into the bottom of the stage. There were maybe thirty tables in the room, but most were unoccupied. The place probably got busy after ten p.m., but at a few minutes before eight there were only about a dozen customers.

The dead guy was sitting at a table at the back of the room, near a hallway that led to the restrooms. Coghill and Dent walked slowly over to the corpse. The victim was a heavyset man with a five o’clock shadow, sitting upright behind a small round table, his chair against the wall. Dent thought he looked Italian and wondered if this could have been a mob hit.

The victim, whoever he was, was wearing a trench coat over a blue suit, a white shirt, and a blue and red striped tie loose at the collar. On his head was a flat hat, the type cabbies and newsboys used to wear. The guy’s trench coat was still damp from the rain and his white shirt had turned dark red from three apparent shots to the chest.

“No shell casings,” Coghill said.

“I noticed,” Dent said, which meant the shooter had most likely used a revolver.

Dent figured the man had come into the bar to get out of the rain and have an after-work belt and, without bothering to remove his coat or hat, had sat down at the table. The drink he’d ordered—a martini with two olives—was sitting in front of him, but it didn’t look as if the guy had taken more than a sip or two.

Dent took two photos of the victim with his cell phone. He and Coghill would now have to wait for the ME to declare the obviously dead man dead and remove the body, and for the crime scene weenies to gather whatever evidence there was to gather, and while all that was going on he and Coghill would question the witnesses while the killing was still fresh in their minds. Not knowing how long it was going to take to remove the corpse, Dent pulled a tablecloth off a nearby table and draped it over the victim’s face and upper torso so the civilians wouldn’t have to look at the man’s half-open dead eyes.

“That’s going to piss off the CSIs,” Coghill said.

“Fuck ’em,” Dent said. The CSIs, thanks to television, all thought they were rock stars these days.

They took a seat at a table near the bar and started with the bartender. They wanted to get his statement out of the way so he could bring them coffee. Coghill took out a small digital tape recorder and placed it on the table. He would also make notes during the interview, his impressions of the interviewee or something to follow up on later. Dent would ask the questions. They were like an old married couple: They had a routine and didn’t deviate from it.

They began each interview exactly the same way: Tell us your full name, your date of birth, your address, and your phone number. Now show us some ID (so we know you didn’t lie when you told us your name). Now tell us what you saw.

The first thing Jack Morris did was lie to the cops.

He’d been a bartender for twenty-five years, the last ten at McGill’s. No way in hell was he going to say that the shooter was drunk when he arrived at the bar—and that then he served him two more drinks before he killed the fat guy. He knew if he admitted that he’d served a drunk, some slimeball lawyer would find a way to sue the bar, saying it was his fault the guy was killed. So Morris said: “I served him a drink. An eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich that goes for twenty bucks a pop. He finished it, ordered another one, then went back to the restroom before I could serve him the second drink. But I didn’t see him come back from the restroom because I was making a margarita for those two old ladies over there—one of them had spilled her drink. I’d just put the margarita on the end of the bar for Kathy to pick up, when he walks back in through the main door and shoots the guy.”

“Wait a minute,” Dent said. “He walked back into the bar from the street? I thought you said he went to the can.”

“He did. I saw him go toward the restrooms, but the next time I saw him he was coming through the door, like he went outside for a minute and then came back in. Then he shot the guy.”

“That’s weird,” Dent said. “Did he say anything to him before he shot him?”

“Not that I saw. Just walked up, blam, blam, blam, then ran out.”

“Had he spoken to the victim before he went to the restroom?”

“No. He was sitting at the bar the whole time he was here, until he got up to go to the can.”

“When did the shooter get here?” Dent asked.

“It must have been close to seven-thirty, because Jerry had just finished setting up.”

“Jerry?”

“The piano guy. He gets here about an hour before he starts playing, makes sure all the equipment is working, then goes back into the kitchen and has something to eat before he plays. Anyway, the killer must have got here around seven-thirty.”

“When did the victim arrive? Was he in the bar already, or did he come in after the shooter?” Dent was wondering if the shooter had followed the victim into the bar, then had a couple of drinks to screw up his courage before he shot him.

“I don’t know,” Morris said. “Kathy takes care of the tables. Maybe she knows.”

“Do you know the shooter’s name?” Dent asked, realizing he should have asked that earlier.

“No, and I can’t remember ever seeing him before. He’s not a regular. I don’t know the dead guy, either.”

“How did the shooter pay for his drink? Did he use a credit card?”

“No, he gave me cash. It’s in the register.”

“How ‘bout the glass he used?” Dent asked. “Did you pour the second drink into the same glass as the first one?”

“Yeah, it’s sitting there on the bar.”

“Don’t touch it; the CSIs will get it. Anything else you can remember?”

“No, nothing. He just had a drink, went to the can, and plugged the guy.”

“But you got a good look at him, sitting at the bar, and when he shot him?”

Morris hesitated. He didn’t want to get caught up in this whole thing. But then he said, “Yeah, well, I guess I got a good look at him.”

Esther Behrman was eighty-six years old, but sharp as a tack as far as Dent could tell. She was wearing a floral-print dress with a pearl necklace and clunky black grandma shoes. She had one of those wrinkly old turkey necks as though she’d once weighed more than she did now, and glasses with bifocal lenses.

“Leah and I were just sitting there having a drink,” Esther said. “We come here sometimes to see Jerry.”

“The piano player?” Dent said.

“Yes. He’s Leah’s cousin’s grandson. We come early because we don’t like to sit too close to the stage because they play the music too loud. Anyway, we were just sitting there and we didn’t notice the … the killer until he went to the restroom. He bumped into the table where we were sitting, spilled half of Leah’s drink, so she had to order another one. He said he was sorry, but you could tell he didn’t mean it. And I think he was drunk, the way he walked.”

“Okay,” Dent said. “What happened next?”

Esther looked over at the tablecloth covering the corpse. She may have been shocked by what had happened but Dent could tell she was thrilled, talking to a detective like the ones on TV.

“Esther, what happened next?” Dent asked again.

“Oh, well, the one who got shot, he came out of the hall where the restrooms are and sat down. Then a couple minutes later the killer, he came back and—”

“Hold it,” Dent said. “Are you saying the victim and the shooter were both together down the hall at the same time, maybe in the restroom together?”

“I don’t know. I told you what I saw. I never saw the man who got shot go down the hall to the restrooms but I saw him come back and sit down, then, like I said, a couple minutes later the killer came back from the restroom, I guess.”

“Okay, what happened next?”

“The killer walked out of the bar—I was keeping my eye on him since he’d spilled Leah’s drink—and—”

“Wait a minute. The killer came back from the restroom and just walked out of the bar? He didn’t say anything to the victim?”

“No, he just walked outside. Then a minute later—maybe not even a minute—he walks back in and shoots him.”

“Did he say anything to the victim before he shot him?”

“I didn’t hear him say anything. He just shot him and ran.”

“But you got a good look at him when he shot the man.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be able to pick him out of a lineup. You’re going to have a lineup, aren’t you, after you catch him?”

Dent almost laughed. “Yes, ma’am, we most likely will. Now could you send your friend Leah over so we can talk to her?”

“Oh, Leah didn’t see anything. Her back was to the table where the, the victim was sitting.” Dent saw a little shiver pass through Esther when she said “victim.”

“Send her over anyway,” Dent said.

While waiting for the other old woman, Coghill said, “We find this guy, it’s gonna be a slam dunk.”

Dent thought that Rachel Quinn was an attractive young woman: trim build, short auburn hair, smart brown eyes. She was thirty-five, and based on her address and the suit she was wearing, he figured she had money. She wasn’t beautiful but she was certainly pretty, especially when she smiled. She also struck Dent as being very bright. She was the one who’d immediately given Murphy the description of the shooter when he’d asked for it.

Quinn had been on an eHarmony date with some guy she was meeting in person for the first time. Her back had been to the door of the bar and she’d been facing the table where the victim was sitting. She never saw the shooter sitting at the bar, she didn’t see either the shooter or the victim go down the hall to the restroom, nor did she see the shooter leave the bar and come back inside. She said she’d been busy talking to her date, and that at one point he’d started showing her photos of his dog on his smartphone. Dent wondered why in hell the guy would do that, but didn’t ask.

“The only thing I saw,” Quinn said, “was the killer walk up to the table where that man was sitting, hold his arm out, and shoot him. I didn’t even realize he was holding a gun. Then he turned and ran out of the bar. He ran right past the table where I was sitting.”

“Did you get a good look at his face?” Dent asked.

“A good look? Well, it’s rather dark in here and he went by me pretty fast, but I think I’d recognize him if I saw him again.”

“How many drinks did you have before the shooting occurred?”

“One. A glass of Chablis, and I hadn’t even finished it.”

Then, just because he was curious, Dent asked, “Why was your date showing you pictures of his dog?”

“Because I have a dog, too. It’s one of the things we have in common.” Then she paused and said, “It may be the only thing we have in common.”

Dent had no idea at the time that Rachel Quinn’s owning a dog would turn out to be important.

Kathy Tolliver was a stunner.

Rachel Quinn, the eHarmony lady, was a pretty young woman but not what Dent would call a head-turner. But the barmaid … She was in her early twenties, tall—maybe five ten; she’d be six feet in heels—and had a mass of swirling dark hair and gray bedroom eyes. She was wearing a tank top that showed off a nice firm pair and a tight, short black skirt that stopped about four inches above her knees. If Dent hadn’t been old and fat, he would have gotten down on his knees and begged her to go out with him.

“We noticed the victim was drinking a martini,” Dent said. “Did you serve him?”

“Yeah. He walked into the bar and took a seat over there,” Kathy said, pointing at the corpse, which the medical examiner’s guys were, thank God, finally getting into a body bag. “He sat down, didn’t even take off his coat or his hat, and I asked him what he wanted. He said a Stoli martini with olives. Jack made his drink, but when I took it to his table he was gone. I figured he must have gone to the restroom.”

“Talk to me about the shooter,” Dent said.

“Well, he was sitting at the bar for maybe ten, fifteen minutes before it happened,” Kathy said. “I’m not sure how long exactly but he had a couple of drinks, looking all mopey, like somebody had killed his puppy or something. You know, staring down into his drink, lips moving like he was talking to himself, but not out loud. If I had to guess, I’d say his girlfriend just dumped him or he lost his job.”

“Okay, then what did you see?”

“I was serving drinks, so I wasn’t paying attention to him, but I saw him get up from the bar stool and walk back to the restrooms. A minute later, he comes back out, but before he did, the guy who was killed came back out, too. I mean, the dead guy went to the restroom, too, like I told you, and he came back into the bar before the little, cute guy did.”

“The shooter was little and cute?” Dent said.

“Yeah. He was short—too short to interest me, anyway—but he was cute.”

“Then what happened?” Dent asked.

Kathy Tolliver shrugged. “The guy who got shot sat down … I was over there at the end of the bar waiting for a margarita for one of those old ladies, and when I looked over, I saw the shooter, the killer, standing in front of him. Then he shoots him.”

“Where did the killer come from before he shot him?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, you said the shooter went to the restroom. Did he come back from the restroom and shoot him or did he maybe come from the front door of the bar?”

“I don’t know. When I saw him, he was just standing in front of the guy and he shot him. Then he ran out the door.”

Coghill spoke for the first time, but to Dent. “Who got here first?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dent said, then directed his question to Kathy. “Your bartender said the shooter got here around seven-thirty. Is that right?’

“Yeah, I guess. I wasn’t looking at my watch, but that sounds right.”

“And when did the victim arrive? Was he already here when the shooter got to the bar?”

“No, he came in maybe five, ten minutes after him.”

This was important: It meant the shooter hadn’t followed the victim into the bar. But for all Dent knew, the shooter could have known the victim was going to be in the bar and was waiting for him. At any rate, it was good to know who arrived first.

“How long do I have to stay here?” Kathy asked. “I was supposed to pick up my kid from the sitter’s early tonight, so if this is going to take much longer, I need to let my sitter know.”

The last person Dent interviewed was Edmundo Ortiz, a busboy, a short man about five five, fifty years old, heavy Hispanic accent. And Dent thought: fifty and working as a busboy. That had to suck.

Dent’s next thought was: illegal immigrant—which was the last fuckin’ thing they needed. If Edmundo was an illegal he was going to lie and say he didn’t see anything because he wouldn’t want to come to the attention of the immigration boys.

“Where are you from, Edmundo?” Dent asked.

“Queens,” Edmundo said.

Dent smiled. “No, I mean originally, like before you came to New York.”

“Oh,” Edmundo said. “Honduras.” Now it was Edmundo’s turn to smile—this big, wide smile showing off a bunch of stubby teeth. “But I’m a citizen. Two years now.”

“Well, congratulations,” Dent said.

“Gracias,” Edmundo said.

“So what did you see?” Dent asked.

All Edmundo had seen was the shooter running out of the bar. He didn’t see the shooter sitting in the bar before he shot the man, nor did he see the shooting itself. He was bringing a trayful of clean glasses from the kitchen to the bar, heard the shots, and then a man went sprinting past him and out the door. “He almost ran into me,” Edmundo said.

“But you saw his face?”

“He went by fast,” Edmundo said.

“But you think you might recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Maybe,” Edmundo said. Then he added, “Probably.”

Dent told all the customer/witnesses that they could leave, but that they’d be contacted later to sign statements. They had five eyewitnesses who saw the shooting or could at least place the shooter in the bar: Jack Morris, the bartender; old Esther Behrman; Rachel Quinn, the eHarmony lady; the gorgeous barmaid, Kathy Tolliver; and U.S. citizen Edmundo Ortiz. There were four other people who’d been sitting in the bar when the killing occurred, but they hadn’t seen anything because they’d been facing in the wrong direction or not paying attention, and all they saw, after the shots were fired, was the shooter’s back as he ran from the bar. The piano player had been in the kitchen eating when everything occurred, so he was no help.

Seeing that Coghill and Dent were done questioning the witnesses, one of the crime scene techs walked over and said they’d ID’d the victim from the driver’s license in his wallet. His name was Dominic Anthony DiNunzio. According to a business card in his wallet, DiNunzio was a CPA and had an office three blocks from McGill’s.

So DiNunzio was a wop, as Dent had thought when he first saw the corpse, which made him wonder again if this could have been a mob hit. But he rejected the idea. He couldn’t remember the last time the Italian mob whacked a guy in a restaurant filled with a dozen people.

Coghill called the precinct, asked a cop to do a quick records check, and was told Dominic DiNunzio had no criminal history, no prior arrests, no outstanding warrants.

The same crime scene tech who ID’d the victim came back to the detectives’ table just as they were getting ready to leave.

“We got two perfect sets of prints off the glass the shooter used,” the tech said. “One is probably the bartender’s, and the other set has to belong to the shooter.”

Dent said to Coghill: “If there’s a God in Heaven, this mutt’s prints will be in the system.”

That evening, God was at home, relaxing in Paradise.