Loud enough to get Rip barking his head off.
Just not loud enough in this case to wake the dead.
ONE HUNDRED SIX
JIMMY DRIVES US TO the city.
Even though the last thing I want is to have my phone back in my hand, I briefly use it to text Katherine Welsh, wanting to get that out of the way now, telling her what’s happened. Despite the hour, she texts me back almost immediately, telling me she’ll contact Judge Horton and request the trial be pushed back another day, and for me to do what I need to do.
But she sends one more text before she’s done.
Who would do something like this?
I shoot her a short reply.
Sonny Blum would
“I should have done more to help him,” I say to Jimmy from the passenger seat.
We’re off the FDR by now and making our way across Manhattan to the West Side.
“He knew who he was dealing with,” Jimmy says.
“So do we.”
“Three people, at least three that we know of, have died in the past couple of weeks because they were betting with Sonny,” Jimmy says. “So the guardrails are clearly off with that crazy old fuck.”
“When were they ever on?” I ask him.
Jimmy told me when he picked me up that he’d just called NYU Langone Hospital–Long Island and that Blum had leftwithout being released. So he’s gone, just not the way we both want him to be, and neither of us thinks he’s coming back anytime soon, if ever.
When we get to Café Martin, the crime scene unit’s van is still in front, along with three cruisers. It’s three in the morning by now, but there are still onlookers on all sides of the yellow tape, with others watching from across the street, where I used to stand and look across at the front window of Café Martin, occasionally catching a glimpse of my ex-husband.
This is the big, bad city, of course, the one that never sleeps, especially when there’s a show like this, even in the middle of the night.
Detective Craig Jackson, Jimmy’s friend, the one who Jimmy says looks more than a little like Samuel L., is waiting for us on the sidewalk, Jimmy having called him when we were off the highway to tell him we were close.
I’ve known Jackson a long time, if not as long or as well as Jimmy has. He hugs me and says, “Sorry, Janie.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“Nothing taken,” Jackson says. “We already talked to the manager, people hardly ever pay cash, so there was really nothing to steal. This looks like a hit, all day and all night.”
“Only because it is,” I say.
Jackson says, “I understand you’ve had a couple like this out east recently.”
Jimmy nods. “Both clients of Sonny Blum’s, the way Jane’s ex was. He’d already been threatened once by one of Sonny’s goons about payments past due.”
“You happen to know which goon?” Jackson asks.
“I should have asked,” I say. “But I never did.”
“You think there’s any way to connect the three murders?” Jackson says.
“Sure,” Jimmy says. “When rats fly.”
“Front door was locked,” Jackson says. “Shooter must’ve come through the back.”
