Little Deaths(30)

He was heading out of the office, thinking about a bar and a baseball game on the tube and a couple of cold beers, when a figure appeared in front of him.

“Con.”

“I want to talk to you, you little shit. You took my story. The dead kids—that should have been mine.”

“You weren’t here.”

“I was away one more week!”

“It was Friedmann’s decision.”

Con took a couple of steps forward, his fists clenched by his sides. “Sure. Sure it was. And you didn’t want it, right? You didn’t push it?”

“What do you want me to say? Look, Con, it’s too late now. I got the story. That’s it. Something else will come up soon, and you’ll get that.”

“Fuck you.”

“You would’ve done the exact same thing.”

That brought Con up short.

“Yeah. Yeah, I would. And you know why? Because I’m good at my job. Because I got experience, and contacts, and I know how to write a fucking story. You? You’re just a college kid who’s way out of his league. You’re a dumb nobody. Fuck you.”

Pete watched him walk away and felt the words burrowing under his skin. And so instead of heading out to a bar, he went home and thought about the case. He needed something to justify Friedmann’s decision to give him the story: a new angle or a new hook. Just as he was falling asleep, an idea came to him.

He was at the office by seven-thirty the next morning, typing up articles, making calls, checking facts. Waiting. And just before noon, Horowitz came in, his face tired, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Pete hadn’t seen him in weeks: he’d been in court following the progress of the fraud trial. Pete stood and cut him off before he reached his desk.

“Busy?”

Horowitz shrugged.

“Want to get lunch?”

“Sure.”

They headed out. Halfway across the parking lot, Pete turned to face him.

“You know I’ve been working on this case about the murdered kids? Frankie and Cindy Malone?”

Horowitz pulled out his smokes.

“I heard, yeah. Read a couple of your pieces.”

Pete let himself be sidetracked.

“You did? What did you think?”

“Not bad. Your style could use a little polish. You repeat yourself. But not bad at all.”

Pete tried to stop the grin spreading across his face. Focused on the question he wanted to ask.

“The guy leading the investigation—Devlin—you know him, right?”

“Yeah, a little.”

Pete stayed quiet, and then Horowitz asked: “How did you know?”

“When I bumped into you in the files, the first day of the case, I dropped a photo of him. It could’ve been anyone. But you made him for a cop.”

Horowitz nodded. Shrugged.

“Yeah, I know him. So what? I’ve been a crime reporter for thirty years. He’s a cop. New York ain’t that big.”

“Can you get me a meet?”

Horowitz raised an eyebrow and Pete spoke quickly. “I just want to meet him. Get a feel for the guy.”

Horowitz could be like a city gridlock in rush hour.

“It’s not gonna happen, kid. He don’t talk to reporters.”

“He talked to you.”

“Yeah, but we’re—”

“You’re what?”

Horowitz dropped his cigarette and ground it out carefully. Then took out his pack of Camels again, fumbled for a light. Inhaled deeply. All the while avoiding Pete’s eyes.

Pete decided to push it. “You’re what? Friends? Neighbors? Golf buddies?”

“We go back a long way.”

“Okay, so you . . .”

“Look. I get that you’re just starting out, Wonicke. I get that. You’re trying to make your name. But Charlie Devlin and I go back. I owe him. So I’m not letting you put so much as one damn question mark over the way he’s running this investigation.”

Pete kept his eyes on the other man’s. Kept his voice steady. Wondered about what seemed like a hell of an overreaction.

“I just want to meet the guy. Just color him in in my mind. Satisfy my curiosity. You say the word and I won’t even mention his name in print, not unless he gives me an official statement and says I can use it.”

Silence.

Then: “Wait here.”

Horowitz made his way back inside, and Pete leaned against the hood of a Ford. For an old guy, Horowitz walked fluidly, from the hips.

He was back within ten minutes. As he approached, he jerked his head, and led the way to a dusty gray sedan parked at the back of the lot.

“Where we going?”

“You wanted to meet him.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“You called him?”

“Yep.”

Horowitz’s car was filthy inside: paper coffee cups, sandwich wrappers, cartons of Chinese food. It was like the graveyard of a hundred stakeouts.

Pete took a pile of papers from the passenger seat, tossed them in back. “Thanks, man. Really, I . . .”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

Horowitz backed out, head turned, eyes on the road.

“Then . . .”