that be?”
“That would be me,” says Pazzano.
“Figured,” I say.
A familiar face is coming into the detective’s room. Sergeant of Detectives Norman Quincy Weed is wearing his finest green suit. It must be getting close to St. Patrick’s Day. He’s wearing a brown tie and brown shoes. He looks like a hedge. Norman has his own sense of style.
The detective’s room has a new Bunn-O-Matic. They’re very proud of it. It grinds fresh beans every time.
“Did you get a coffee?”
“I could use another one,” I say. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
Weed sips, makes a face. He misses the old hotplate. “You want stuff in that?” He offers me a sugar packet.
“Just the caffeine,” I say. The coffee tastes fine to me.
He checks out the bruise on my jawbone. “You been brawling again?”
“Chasing shadows,” I say. “One of them tried to run me over.”
“Where’s your boss?” he asks.
“Interview room. It’s hit him pretty hard.”
“Un hunh,” he says. He doesn’t sound too sympathetic. “They were close, weren’t they?”
“I think he was closer to her than anyone in his world.”
“Got any ideas?” he asks.
“Not a clue. It looked like a break-in, all the damage. She was a fighter. She probably threw one of them over the side.”
“Anything stolen?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “They didn’t get into the safe. I don’t think they were up there to rip off the TV-set.”
“Tough place to burglarize,” Weed agrees. “You need a special elevator key, don’t you?”
“It was a fortress,” I say. “See if you can find out how they got in, will you?”
“Not my case, Joe.”
“I know that. But when it won’t break the rules or kick you back down to crossing guard, you might pass me the word, right?”
“Sure, Joe,” he says. Norman’s a friend. He’s also the ranking detective in this room.
“You identified the other guy?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But he was up there, right?”
“I’ll wait till I get a report from my detectives,” he says. “After that … I might not tell you anyway.”
“Thanks,” I say. “The lead guy, Mooney, he’s competent?”
“Oh, yeah,” Weed says. “So’s his partner. They’ll do a good job.”
“Leo really wants to know who did this.”
“Sure he does. And if he asks you to meddle, pretend you didn’t hear him.”
“I’m just trying to watch his back,” I say.
“Mmm hmmm.” My response hasn’t satisfied him much. “How much do you know about your boss?”
“Not that much. He’s a private person.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got a lot to be private about.”
“Meaning?”
He sips his coffee, adds more sugar. “You’re working for a pirate, pal,” he says. “That’s all I’m saying.” He tries his new coffee combination and deems it passable. “A real buccaneer.”
I remember him saying something similar when I first met him.
Eight years ago.
Second day in the hospital, a sleepy-eyed guy rolls into the room wearing an orange and green tie and a cerulean blue suit. He sits down beside the bed without being asked and helps himself to my juice box.
I say, “Help yourself.”
“Were you drinking this?”
“Hadn’t started.”
“They’ll get you another one. The doc tells me you missed getting your ticket punched by about an inch and a half.”
“I don’t think it was that close.”
“Close enough,” he says.
“You’re a cop.”
“Detective,” he says. “Norman Weed, middle name Quincy for some reason. My mother was coy on the subject.”
“I never got a look at the shooter,” I say. “He was over the wall by the time I turned around.”
“Yeah. People are either staring at the gun or diving for cover. Your boss says he saw the guy’s face but didn’t recognize him. A stranger, he says.”
“Anyone else get hurt?”
“One guy got dinged in the leg by a ricochet. Not serious. He’ll be dancing again in a week.”
“Any leads?”
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Whoever it was, he was there to shoot your boss, but your boss isn’t very forthcoming.”
“About?”
“About why someone would be gunning for him.”
“I don’t think he was expecting anything that serious.”
“Because?”
“He just wanted someone to watch his back.”
“Because?”
“Didn’t say. I asked him what he was worried about, just so I’d have some idea what to look for, and he said he’d had a phone call.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I assumed it was a threat of some kind but he wasn’t specific.”
“Mysterious guy.”
“Wish I could help you. First time anybody took a shot at me.”
“Five shots. Three of them drew blood.”
“Suit was too good for me anyway.”
He stands up and puts my empty juice box back on the tray. “Here’s my card if anything comes to mind.”
“All right.”
“Nice talking to you.”
“You know Manny Bigalow?” I ask him.
“Who’s he?”
“Sells suits,” I say. “He told me never to wear bright blue. It doesn’t go with anything.”
“Yeah, well, I have my own sense of style,” says Norman Quincy Weed.
Leo is coming out of the interview room. He’s not the same man I saw doing the tango with the classy divorcée last night. He’s running low on vital juices, folding inside himself, not as tall.
Leo and Weed don’t shake hands.
“Sorry for your loss,” Weed says to Leo.
“She was just the best person,” Leo says.
Pazzano is standing in the background, watching us. Mooney is already at his desk, transcribing notes, making phone calls.
I take Leo’s arm and start to move him toward the exit. I can feel his shoulders shaking.
Margo Traynor is waiting to escort us to the Ambassador Suite. She has Leo’s messages