Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

Now his eyes shifted to me. They ran from my shoes to my head. Then he said, “Did you go to college?”

I nodded. “Manhattan College.”

“What did you study?”

“Philosophy.”

“What did you want to do before you settled for being a cop?”

Damned if that wasn’t a pretty good question. Then I caught myself. I didn’t settle for anything. Police work is what called to me after I finished school.

I leveled my gaze at the young slacker. “I’ve saved lives. I’ve raised kids. I sleep at night.” I paused as the kid stared at me. “Most people are lucky if they can achieve any of those things. One day, when you’re not working so hard to be an arrogant little prick, you might realize that.”

The kid looked at the ground and mumbled, “If you give me your number I might be able to find a name. But it could take a while. And you can’t ever tell anyone.”

I didn’t hesitate. I’d even take a couple of prank calls if it meant I could catch a lead that would stop this killer.

Chapter 11

I left the school feeling like a wolf who was still hungry for sheep. I needed adult interaction. Someone I wouldn’t feel guilty about hitting. Or at least scaring. The kids and Miss DiPetro had me thinking in different directions. That was good for a homicide detective. You’ve got to keep your mind open.

Traffic was snarled as usual, so I left my city-issued Impala in a garage and decided to walk in my search for the right person to talk to. I had several choices, and they were all on the west side of Central Park. At least they would be this time of day. I didn’t care, as long as I didn’t have to stop at another school today.

I couldn’t face another smart-ass teenager unless it was one I

had raised. I knew I could help Brian. I just had to find the right person and think in the right direction. I held out hope that something would happen to save Brian.

That’s another ingredient necessary for a good homicide detective: hope. You always have to have a little hope. It’s the only way to keep your sanity. It’s easy to operate in my world and lose sight of the fact that there are still good people out there.

The next thing important to a good homicide detective, believe it or not, is faith. Faith in God. Faith in family. And faith in yourself. I knew I could help Brian. I had faith that if I could find his supplier, we might be able to cut a deal. If we couldn’t cut a deal, at least I’d know who would be made to pay for all the pain he had caused my family.

I found Walter Nussbaum in an Irish bar not far from Columbus Circle on West 57th Street. It was a dark, nasty little hole where I knew he and some of his backward friends liked to hang out. This was not a place tourists wandered into by accident. I pushed through the door and noticed three construction workers at the bar. If they cared who I was, it didn’t show on their faces. I felt like a sheriff in an old saloon as I scanned the small room for Nussbaum.

He was sitting alone at a table in the corner, thumbing through the latest copy of Firearms News. He didn’t look up until I was already halfway across the room. He tried to conceal his shock. He probably didn’t realize I knew this was one of his hangouts.

“Hello, Walter.”

He didn’t offer me a seat, but I took one anyway.

I scooted the chair close to him and said in a low voice, “I don’t have a lot of time to chat. What did you find out for me?”

“This is uncool, man. I can’t be seen talking to you here.”

“Then let’s leave, and you can talk to me in five minutes. But you’re gonna tell me something useful, and you’re gonna do it soon.”

“You don’t understand.” The young man couldn’t even hold a page of the magazine. It fluttered in his hand, betraying his jitters.

“No, Walter, you don’t understand. I need to know who’s using schoolkids to push dope. You said you’d find out.”

“It’s not that simple.” His eyes darted past me.

I heard someone behind me say, “This guy bothering you, Chill?”

I took a quick glance at the two twentysomething shitheads. Bother-me gym rats with thick arms and probably heads to match.

I turned back to Walter and said, “Chill? That’s your street name?” I almost laughed out loud.

Walter didn’t answer.