In the still air, she leans her head back and blows a perfect smoke ring.
“So we’re clear?” Norma Banks says. “I think your client is guilty as balls.”
The twinkle in her eyes makes her look much younger than I know she is.
“Is that going to be a problem for you?”
“If it’s not for you, it’s not for me,” she says. “Now let’s both of us stop screwing around here and get to work.”
We’re walking across the street to the courthouse when Jimmy Cunniff calls and without preamble, because there rarely is an ex-cop like him, reports facts he thinks worthy of landmark status. Rob Jacobson is at the family town house inManhattan, the place where his father and teenage mistress were shot to death when Jacobson was in high school.
“That’s impossible,” I say. “He’s wearing a goddamn electronic monitoring device.”
“Wore it all the way back to daddy’s house, apparently.”
“What can we do about that, unless they’re already on their way to pick him up?”
“WhatI’mgoing to do is drive to the city and then drag him back out here,” Jimmy says. “And not by his ankle, in case you were wondering.”
I end the call, for the second time today feeling the urge to kill my own client.
“Don’t tell me,” Norma Banks says, as almost like a condemned woman, she finishes off one last Marlboro. “Your client did something stupid.”
“Guilty,” I say.
FIVE
Jimmy
NO MATTER HOW MANY times Jimmy has told Jane that Jacobson isn’t worth it, he can’t break through. And without confronting her, he can’t for the life of him figure why she’d risk whatever time she might have left, because of the fucking cancer, on the likes of this guy, whether he’s innocent or not.
Jimmy shouldn’t have NYPD plates. But he does. He used to go out with a cute young woman from the Manhattan DMV, and she still takes care of him, this being one of his few relationships with women that didn’t end in a dumpster fire. So he parks directly in front of Jacobson’s Upper West Side town house and walks up the steps and rings the doorbell, jabbing it hard enough to drive it right through the wall.
A girl in a tight T-shirt letteredTALENTLESSand even tighter black exercise pants answers the door. She’s barefoot. It’s the middle of the day but the kid has what looks to be a glass of white wine in her hand.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Sure,” Jimmy says. “We can start with you telling me how old you are.”
“How old are you?”
Jimmy nods, ignores the question. “Dalton or Spence?”
Two Manhattan schools for snots like this.
“What are you,” she asks, “the truant officer?”
She starts to shut the door. Jimmy holds it open.
“I’ll do you one better,” Jimmy says, pulling out his wallet and flashing one of his fake badges. “I’m apoliceofficer.”
“Shit,” she says, then whips her head around and yells, “Rob, there’s a cop here to see you.”
While she’s still looking up toward the second floor, Jimmy walks past her and into the foyer. A few seconds later, he sees Rob Jacobson making his way down the stairs as the girl runs past him the other way, spilling some of her wine as she does.
Jacobson is only wearing baggy gym shorts. He’s got chicken legs, but surprises Jimmy with what are clearly trainer abs.
“Well, if it isn’t fake detective Cunniff,” Jacobson says pleasantly, and salutes.
