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  Bobby retreated to the back of the reposing room, where he found John Shine standing, the way men do at bars, talking softly to a few saddened old-timers. Then he glimpsed Forrest Morgan in the corridor near the entrance to the viewing room, signing his own name and then tracing his finger down the list of other signed names. Bobby exchanged glances with Morgan, and he and Shine drifted to the rear wall of the parlor, where they could converse in whispers. Shine leaned against the wall and sighed with grim relief.

  “I can’t stand for long periods,” he said.

  “I can’t stand what’s going on,” Bobby said.

  “You think they killed him, don’t you?”

  “Positive,” Bobby said.

  “But who the fuck would hurt old Tom? He was ready for pasture.”

  “He was onto something,” Bobby said.

  “What? What could he possibly have known?”

  “He was looking into what happened to Dorothea.”

  “You actually had him working that?”

  “You’re the one who told me I should see him.”

  “Yeah,” John Shine whispered, arching his back, trying to get comfortable. “I thought he might have a useful hunch or two, that he was spinning some wacky theories. But I didn’t know he was actually working the case.”

  “He was just nosing around.”

  “So why would someone kill him?”

  “Maybe because he was raising the dead, John,” Bobby said.

  “Riddles I don’t need, Bobby,” Shine said. “You were in touch with him. What the hell was he telling you?”

  “About some old case.”

  “What case . . .?”

  Bobby was interrupted when Lou Barnicle appeared with a flourish, followed by a badly limping Kuzak, who favored his crotch area with a protective stoop. Then came Zeke, O’Brien, Flynn, Levin, Lebeche, Daniels, and two new additions—Caputo and Dixon.

  “Where do they get the balls?” Bobby asked.

  “It is a disgrace,” Shine said. “You start at one end. I’ll start at the other. We’ll toss the whole shit pile of them onto the sidewalk.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” Bobby said. “But not here.”

  “Tom would love it,” John Shine said, twisting his torso for relief. “A real fuckin’ Irish wake. We’ll kick ass and take names and leave the dead for the sweepers.”

  Bobby laughed and a few heads turned.

  Forrest Morgan, the only black man in the room, watched each of the three-quarters crew sign in. His and Bobby’s eyes met again, and then Bobby glanced toward Caputo and Dixon. Morgan acknowledged Bobby’s barely perceptible signal and tapped those two on their shoulders and pointed out toward the lobby. Caputo and Dixon appeared startled and looked to Lou Barnicle as if for guidance. He shrugged and nodded for them to accompany Forrest Morgan.

  Barnicle then looked at Bobby and Shine. Bobby stared right back, watching him dip his hand in a holy water font and bless himself, kneel at the casket, clasp his hands, and bow his head over the body of Tom Larkin.

  “Hypocritical bastard,” Shine said. “He had no use for Tom. Never did.”

  “The feeling was mutual,” Bobby said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  They walked out of the reposing room into the lobby. John Shine seemed happy to be in motion, his movements growing more fluid with each step.

  “Barnicle is in nose deep, John,” Bobby said, as they crossed the lobby and pushed through the glass front doors onto humid Fourth Avenue, alive with honking horns and the lights of the Brooklyn night. “But I think he’s working for even worse people.”

  “I think you better keep me in the loop,” Shine said. ‘You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

  “I appreciate that,” Bobby said, as he saw Forrest Morgan grilling Caputo and Dixon beside a fire-alarm box on the corner.

  “Start by telling me what Tom was looking into that could have gotten him killed,” Shine said.

  “Funny,” Bobby said. “This wake got me thinking. Both of us lost women, the loves of our lives, and neither of us had a body for a wake.”

  John Shine looked at Bobby oddly. “What a morbid thought,” he said. “Talk to me instead about what could have gotten Tom killed. What was he looking into?”

  Before Bobby could answer, Forrest Morgan strode quickly across the sidewalk and pointed to Caputo and Dixon.

  “Did you witness these two men having any kind of altercation with Torn Larkin in the last week or so?” Morgan asked aloud, as Caputo and Dixon stood looking at Bobby and Shine.

  Bobby stared at Caputo and Dixon with disgust and then looked back at Forrest Morgan, who stood, big and powerful and sweaty, in front of him.

  “I don’t talk to Internal Affairs,” Bobby said, and winked at a smiling John Shine.

  39

  SATURDAY

  Trevor Sawyer sat next to Bobby Emmet as they made their third trip down the thunderous Cyclone ride in Coney Island, making sixty-mile-an-hour hairpin turns on the oldest wooden roller coaster in America. Sawyer, a native New Yorker, had never been on the Cyclone before. Bobby thought this man who had everything must have had a very sad childhood. “Never been to Coney Island before.” Sawyer said. “Of course, I sailed past with father a few times. But when Maggie asked me to take her here from Southampton—without her mother’s knowledge, of course—I jumped at the chance. I’m delighted I did.”

  “Consider yourself baptized,” Bobby said. “A born-again New Yorker.”

  F. Scott Fitzgerald was right, Bobby thought. The rich really are different. And not just because they had more money than everyone else, as Ernest Hemingway had snidely replied to Fitzgerald’s comment. It was because the money owned them. And often distanced them from some of the best things in life. Like simple fun. And what good was Hamptons money without Coney Island fun? The rich were raised with the belief that if it didn’t cost a lot, it couldn’t be good. And they remained impoverished in the soul.

  “Thanks for showing me around,” Trevor said, his eyes pinwheeled like a kid’s, as they moved past the barkers of the arcades and the other frantic rides of the amusement park.

  “You don’t have to be poor to love ‘The Poor Man’s Paradise,’ ” Bobby said. “Coney is yours, too. It belongs to the citizens.”

  “I’m glad something does,” said Trevor.

  Earlier, Bobby had tried to explain that this was more a state of mind than a place. A symbol of freedom that attracted the immigrant masses. What beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti called “a Coney Island of the mind.” Bobby told Trevor that Coney Island, even now in its shabby elegance, was still a perfect Oz that managed to survive the foulest of political neglect over the years.

  “What’s troubling you?” Bobby asked as they walked, looking for Maggie, who had wandered off with Sandy Fraser and her little boy, Donald, into the Kiddieland park. Maggie had volunteered to help with Donald, but Bobby knew she was really trying to get a read on Sandy for him.

  “I was at another political gathering,” said Trevor. “Again for Stone. Again no monetary solicitation. It makes me nervous.”

  “Because the rich might not control the next governor?” Bobby asked, a drop of acid in the remark.

  “Because no one will. A politician who doesn’t solicit money doesn’t just want to be elected. He wants to be crowned. And once again your name came up.”

  “From Sol Diamond?”

  “Yes.”

  They walked up to the three-mile stretch of boardwalk that was still the best stroll in the city, with the salt breeze blowing in off the Atlantic, the smell of hot dogs, french fries, corn on the cob, wafting in the air. Bobby bought Trevor a hot dog and a cup of beer from a stand called Gregory and Paul’s. He remembered years back, when he was new on the NYPD, a police captain in the Coney Island precinct had been fired from the job for getting caught by Internal Affairs taking free coffee and ice cream from this food stand. Today you could rip off a lifelong, tax-free pension and get
away with it. But, as John Shine always said, “A corrupt cop always starts with that first free cup of coffee.”

  “How’d my name come up again?” Bobby asked.

  “In relation to the old cop who committed suicide,” Trevor said, holding the beer cup in one hand and eating the hot dog with the other.

  “Tom Larkin,” Bobby said.

  “The one Max Roth in the Daily News is saying was a murder. It has people very nervous.”

  “Good.”

  “No, it’s not,” Trevor said, wiping mustard off his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowing. “Because it also makes me nervous. It comes right back to you. If they are going to deal with you, it will have to be soon. Before the primary. Which is four days away. And if anything happens to you, it will crush little Maggie’s heart. Which would destroy Constance. And probably my marriage. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Trevor,” Bobby said, staring the millionaire in the eyes, this time believing him completely.

  They walked down toward the amusement area again. Maggie and Sandy were in the kiddie park, chatting and laughing. Maggie caught Bobby’s eye and waved. Sandy’s little boy, Donald, pulled furiously at the chain of a bell on a miniature fire engine ride. Bobby and Trevor stood by the spook house, listening to a mechanical devil cackle at a group of passing homeboys who strutted with teenaged girlfriends carrying Kewpie dolls that the guys had won for them in the arcades.

  Trevor finished the last bite of the hot dog, washed it down with a big gulp of beer, and tossed the cup in a trash barrel. “Now I think I’ll give that Cyclone another whirl. Care to join me?”

  “I think I’ll sit this one out,” Bobby said as Maggie drifted over from the kiddie park.

  “Come on, Mag,” Trevor said.

  Maggie smiled and winked at Bobby and hurried after Trevor to the roller coaster. Bobby was now convinced Gleason was wrong about not trusting Trevor. He was just too sad and insecure to be diabolical.

  Bobby sauntered across the amusement park to Sandy, who was strapping little Donald into a seat on a small kiddie carousel. Bobby hopped on board, holding on to a brass pole as the ride spun to life.

  Sandy was dressed in tight faded denim shorts and a scoop-neck white summer T-shirt, her thick hair pulled back with an elastic band, small elegant sunglasses perched on her perfect nose. Her white Reebok sneakers were well broken in but bleached bright white. She was even more beautiful in the bright sun than in moonlight.

  “That Maggie’s some kid,” Sandy said. “You must be very proud.”

  “I am,” Bobby said. “This little guy is adorable, too.”

  “He’s the core of my life,” Sandy said, looking away as she spoke, a small fracture in her voice as a trouble-free Strauss waltz gurgled from the pipes of the carousel.

  “Weeeeeeeeee,” said Donald as the ride picked up moderate speed and wooden horses with terrifying faces pumped up and down on greased pistons.

  “His father must be very proud,” Bobby said.

  “Unfortunately, he’s not.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “It’s like he doesn’t know he exists. Resents him.”

  Bobby could see her eyes water. He handed her a napkin from the hot dog stand, and she lifted the glasses and dabbed her eyes.

  “How did you get away from Barnicle and the nanny today?”

  “I put laxatives in the nanny’s vitamin C bottle,” she said, and laughed through the tears. “She takes four capsules every morning. I don’t think she’s been out of the bathroom all morning.”

  Bobby smiled.

  “You can run now. Come with me.”

  “No,” Sandy said. “You don’t understand. It’s too late for that. They still have the evidence from the medical board against me that could put me in jail. I couldn’t live as a fugitive. I couldn’t weather a custody fight with Barnicle. I have no money. Plus they’d look for me. He has connections everywhere. Besides, it’s not forever. Eventually they won’t need me anymore, and they say they’ll pay me off and leave me alone.”

  “I think maybe you should tell me a few more things, Sandy,” Bobby said.

  “Bobby, you know I can’t. The baby . . .”

  “Barnicle sent you to me the other night, didn’t he?”

  She looked at him with the raw eyes, as if asking for forgiveness.

  “I know you were lying, because you said you traced the boat to my lawyer’s name,” Bobby said. “It’s not in his name. So my guess is Barnicle told you where to find me, sent you to come and play the weakest card in an ex-con’s hand. Told you to try to fuck information out of me.”

  This wasn’t indiscriminate vulgarity; this was the operative verb in question.

  “Okay, that’s true,” she said with a trembling lower lip, as the carousel spun. “But, I couldn’t do that to Dorothea. She loves you. I know you love her. But I needed some human affection. Needed someone to talk to. I wanted someone to see that Donald was taken care of in case something happens to me. I love my kid the way you and Dorothea love each other. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But these people are capable of anything. You have no idea . . .”

  “You keep talking about Dorothea in the present tense,” Bobby said as the carousel twirled, the music soaring, the pistons pumping, Donald squealing, the world zipping past them—streaks of blue ocean, black faces, other amusement rides.

  She nodded. “I think she’s still alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the blind man,” she said, still dabbing her eyes.

  “What blind man?”

  Now little Donald saw that his mother was crying, and he immediately joined in the sobbing, stretching his arms out to her as the ride began to slow. Bobby bent and unstrapped him and lifted him up in his arms, considered his vaguely familiar looking face, studying him for a long moment as the kid whined for his mother. Bobby tried to place the face. It was like an artist’s composite sketch that needed a few more specific details to bring the image into focus. The kid’s face began to haunt him.

  When the carousel stopped, he handed the boy to Sandy, and she held him in her arms until he calmed down, and then she strapped him into his stroller. Bobby bought some cotton candy from a wagon and handed the immense spun-sugar cocoon to the kid, who pushed it into his face like a pillow, mouth open. The kid was soon giggling as the candy melted in his mouth, his face as sticky as flypaper.

  They climbed up to the boardwalk, and when they strolled past West Eleventh Street, they paused near the railing on the street side, near a rank of public telephones. Bobby looked both ways on the boardwalk, making certain they weren’t being watched.

  “Now, tell me, what blind man?” he said.

  “The one that arrives at John Shine’s house every Monday and Friday,” she said.

  “John Shine’s house?”

  “I spend a lot of time down in Windy Tip, mostly doing nothing, because most days Barnicle doesn’t give me anything to do. I do clerical work in Gibraltar Security three mornings a week, making up payrolls, billings, mail. Mostly I sit on the balcony down Windy a lot, watching the world go by. What little of it there is in my life. That’s where I saw you swim in from the boat to John Shine’s house.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, over the last year or so, I started noticing that every Monday and Friday afternoon, at about a quarter after twelve, Shine would show up and help a blind man out of his car. The blind man always wears big dark glasses and carries a small black bag, like a doctor’s bag. They go in the house together. About a half hour later they come out. They get back in the car, and Shine drives away and returns alone. Twice a week.”

  Bobby watched little Donald gnaw deeper into the sugary nest of cotton candy. He looked out toward the horizon, trying to match a straight line against this new information he was hearing. It was like putting a level on a canoe. Bobby turned back to Sandy. She was wearing her sunglasses again.

 
“What does that have to do with Dorothea?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sandy said. “It’s just weird. Besides the blind man, I never saw another person go in that house until you did. Women love Shine. He dates them, all right; dinner, a show, a movie. But he never sleeps with them. I know because a few girls who wanted to sleep with him told me they never got to first base. And these were pretty girls. He never brings a woman in there. And I don’t think he’s gay either.”

  “Well, he says he’s still in mourning for the one great love of his life,” Bobby said. “Some men do have feelings.”

  “Okay, maybe that’s true. But, no offense, who has a blind doctor? And why go pick him up? Why not just drive to his office? Who picks up a blind doctor to do a house call? And then drives him back to wherever he came from? I’m telling ya, it’s freakin’ weird.”

  “Maybe he’s just a friend,” Bobby said, trying to make sense of this oddity. Maybe she was lying again. For Barnicle. Literally leading Bobby down a blind alley.

  “Yeah,” she said. “So how come he carries that little old-fashioned black doctor’s bag all the time?”

  “So John Shine has a doctor come visit him,” Bobby said. “He does have a very bad back. Maybe this blind doctor has magic fingers, a chiropractor. But what’s this got to do with Dorothea?”

  As he talked, he knew there might be something very ugly and scary going on here. He controlled his emotions, reminding himself that Sandy could also still be trying to throw Bobby off Barnicle’s scent. Trying to make him suspect one of his closest friends. Using sweetness and guilt and apologies and even her own child to mask yet more deceit.

  “What if Shine has Dorothea hidden in his house and uses the doctor to check on her?” Sandy asked. “That’s what I think might be going on.”

  Bobby imagined Dorothea as a captive inside that house. But where? He thought of the attic; the mad scratching of squirrels. What if it hadn’t been squirrels? But Dorothea clawing to get free.

  “I’ll look into it,” Bobby said. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Sandy? Like who the real father of your baby is?”