some of these people involved in the bombing of the Trade Center in ninety-three?”
“Some were, yeah, some newly arrived radical types, but most of these people were not at all happy with them, even before the bombing. The newcomers took over some of the mosques and forced the more moderate imams out.”
“You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”
Richie shrugged. “Like I told you, I’ve been working this turf for a long time.”
Jack sighed and stretched. “Let’s keep going.”
And so they did, walking in and out of Laundromats, gas stations, auto parts stores, seeking anyone who might have any information related to their case. No matter how many times they assured people that they were not feds, that they had absolutely nothing to do with Immigration, every time they interviewed a Pakistani-American, the result was the same: a look of barely suppressed panic, a clamping down.
Two hours later, they stopped to take a break and sit in a coffee shop for a few minutes.
“Well, whaddaya wanna do?” Powker said as they settled onto a couple of counter stools. “I guess we can go back and keep working on the Brasciak end of things.”
Jack frowned. They had already discovered that their victim was unmarried, didn’t seem to have any wives or kids in his past, had a decent credit rating and no criminal record.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “What a waste of time!”
“I told you,” Richie said. “You can’t hold it against them. They’re just afraid of getting deported.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not talking about the Pakistanis; I’m talking about that fed. I think maybe he already knows who our perp is, while we’re wandering around here like a couple of mopes. It burns me up—it’s disrespectful of the NYPD, and it’s totally pointless. Aren’t we all on the same team?”
“Nothing new from your boss?”
Jack snorted. In typical fashion, Sergeant Tanney had been told what to do, and then had meekly gone ahead and done it. “He says he called again today, but the feds didn’t call back.”
Richie sighed, then picked up a menu. “You gonna get something to eat or just coffee?”
Jack rested his elbows on the counter, thinking of a little boost of sweetness to counter the futility of the day. Statistically speaking, after the first forty-eight hours the chance of solving any homicide case dropped like a stone.
CHAPTER NINE
A FTER THE DAY’S TOUR of duty was over, Jack drove back to Cosenza’s funeral home. A wake was about to begin and the deceased’s family and friends were filing in, squat old women packed into tight black dresses, gangly teenagers squirming under the pressure of unfamiliar suit collars, and big beefy men with mullet haircuts demonstrating their manly handshakes and slapping each other on the shoulder. A couple of professionally grave men, employees of the home, stood at attention at the sides of the front door, hands folded over their crotches, doing their best not to look bored.
Across the street, Jack saw Larry Cosenza step outside for a moment, and he pushed himself away from the hood of his car and called out.
Cosenza looked up, startled. A little too startled, perhaps … He glanced up and down the street, then gestured at Jack. Inside.
“How about putting up some nice track lighting?” Jack teased as they walked back into his old friend’s somber office. “Or some pictures of the beach?”
The funeral director pretended to be irked. “Hey—I don’t come over where you work, tell you how to use your goddamn sheriff’s badge.”
Jack chuckled. “The place looks great. Really.” He settled into an armchair.
Cosenza picked up a tray of Italian pastries from his desk. “Want a sfogliatella ? They’re left over from a wake, but still nice and fresh.”
Jack picked out one of the shell-shaped pastries and bit into it, savoring the ricotta filling, with its hint of orange peel; he held his hand under it, but a few flaky crumbs still
“Some were, yeah, some newly arrived radical types, but most of these people were not at all happy with them, even before the bombing. The newcomers took over some of the mosques and forced the more moderate imams out.”
“You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”
Richie shrugged. “Like I told you, I’ve been working this turf for a long time.”
Jack sighed and stretched. “Let’s keep going.”
And so they did, walking in and out of Laundromats, gas stations, auto parts stores, seeking anyone who might have any information related to their case. No matter how many times they assured people that they were not feds, that they had absolutely nothing to do with Immigration, every time they interviewed a Pakistani-American, the result was the same: a look of barely suppressed panic, a clamping down.
Two hours later, they stopped to take a break and sit in a coffee shop for a few minutes.
“Well, whaddaya wanna do?” Powker said as they settled onto a couple of counter stools. “I guess we can go back and keep working on the Brasciak end of things.”
Jack frowned. They had already discovered that their victim was unmarried, didn’t seem to have any wives or kids in his past, had a decent credit rating and no criminal record.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “What a waste of time!”
“I told you,” Richie said. “You can’t hold it against them. They’re just afraid of getting deported.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not talking about the Pakistanis; I’m talking about that fed. I think maybe he already knows who our perp is, while we’re wandering around here like a couple of mopes. It burns me up—it’s disrespectful of the NYPD, and it’s totally pointless. Aren’t we all on the same team?”
“Nothing new from your boss?”
Jack snorted. In typical fashion, Sergeant Tanney had been told what to do, and then had meekly gone ahead and done it. “He says he called again today, but the feds didn’t call back.”
Richie sighed, then picked up a menu. “You gonna get something to eat or just coffee?”
Jack rested his elbows on the counter, thinking of a little boost of sweetness to counter the futility of the day. Statistically speaking, after the first forty-eight hours the chance of solving any homicide case dropped like a stone.
CHAPTER NINE
A FTER THE DAY’S TOUR of duty was over, Jack drove back to Cosenza’s funeral home. A wake was about to begin and the deceased’s family and friends were filing in, squat old women packed into tight black dresses, gangly teenagers squirming under the pressure of unfamiliar suit collars, and big beefy men with mullet haircuts demonstrating their manly handshakes and slapping each other on the shoulder. A couple of professionally grave men, employees of the home, stood at attention at the sides of the front door, hands folded over their crotches, doing their best not to look bored.
Across the street, Jack saw Larry Cosenza step outside for a moment, and he pushed himself away from the hood of his car and called out.
Cosenza looked up, startled. A little too startled, perhaps … He glanced up and down the street, then gestured at Jack. Inside.
“How about putting up some nice track lighting?” Jack teased as they walked back into his old friend’s somber office. “Or some pictures of the beach?”
The funeral director pretended to be irked. “Hey—I don’t come over where you work, tell you how to use your goddamn sheriff’s badge.”
Jack chuckled. “The place looks great. Really.” He settled into an armchair.
Cosenza picked up a tray of Italian pastries from his desk. “Want a sfogliatella ? They’re left over from a wake, but still nice and fresh.”
Jack picked out one of the shell-shaped pastries and bit into it, savoring the ricotta filling, with its hint of orange peel; he held his hand under it, but a few flaky crumbs still
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