“Monahan,” she said. She listened to what the voice on the other end of the line was saying, and she felt herself turning white. She asked some questions, then hung up.
“Dierdre,” her boss said, “you look weird. You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“I hope not.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Gus Castiglione is dead.”
“What?”
“He got knifed at Rikers.”
“Didn’t you put him into protective custody?”
“Yes, but for some reason his cell opened at lunch call, and he went to the dining hall, or at least he started out for the dining hall. Somebody put a shiv into him twice. They’ve got a suspect, a little rat named Skinny diSalvo, who’s awaiting trial on a gambling charge, but, of course, nobody saw anything.”
“I want an investigation of how that cell door got opened,” the chief said.
“Somebody got bought,” Dierdre replied, “and I don’t think we’re going to find out who.”
“You’ve still got that other witness, what’s his name?”
“Fisher, Herbert Fisher.”
“Is he in Rikers?”
“No, I’ve got him in a safe house, a hotel.”
“You’d better make sure nothing happens to him.”
“Right,” she said. “I have to go make some calls.”
Herbie had been in the hotel for nearly a whole day, now, and he didn’t like it. The bed was hard, the food from room service was lousy, the TV in the bedroom was too small, and the two cops who were always with him hogged the bigger one in the sitting room.
One of the cops opened the door. “You okay, Herbie?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Good idea,” the cop said. “I was gonna mention it to you.”
Herbie got out of his pajamas, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he started getting dressed.
There was a knock on the sitting room door, and the two cops looked at each other. “Yeah?” one of them yelled.
“Room service,” a muffled voice said from the other side of the door.
“Jesus, is that kid eating again? It’s only been an hour since the cheeseburger.” He got to his feet and went to the door. As he turned the knob, somebody kicked it wide open, and something hit him in the chest. There had been no sound. He tried to yell to his partner, but somebody was stepping over him. He heard his partner yell, “Oh, shit!” followed by a tiny pfffft.
The man with the silenced semiautomatic pistol put one extra shot into the head of each cop, then he moved quietly to the door to the bedroom. He put his ear to the door and listened: The TV was playing, sounded like a soap opera. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room, the gun held out before him. Nobody in sight. Then he heard the shower running.
He walked quickly to the bathroom door, which was ajar, allowing steam from the shower to escape. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was so much fog, it was difficult to see, but after a moment, he made out the shower curtain. He reached over with his left hand and snatched it open, ready to fire. Nobody. He checked behind the door. Still nobody. Where was the kid?
Herbie hadn’t wanted his guards to see him dressed, so when he heard the cop yell, he ducked into the bedroom closet and watched as the man with the gun went into the bathroom. He didn’t hesitate but ran into the living room, looking for the cops, who were both on the floor with holes in their heads. Once again, Herbie didn’t hesitate. He went into the pockets of the cop lying by the door and found a roll of bills, then took the cop’s gun and ran like a deer down the hallway to the fire stairs, then ran all eleven floors to the lobby. There was a cab waiting in front of the hotel, and he dived into it.
“Just drive,” he said to the driver.
“That don’t do it, pal,” the driver replied. “Where you want to go?”