At Hell's Gate by Ethan Black

Author:Ethan Black
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books

CHAPTER

* * *

ELEVEN

“See that nice-looking young man sitting by my desk? Do you think he paid someone to murder his grandmother?”

Eight-year-old Conrad Voort stands in the entrance of Dad’s squad room on a Saturday afternoon, a wedge of hot pizza in one hand, a Styrofoam cup filled with Coke in the other. The boy’s horrified that a person might actually hurt his own grandmother, but is thrilled, as always, when Dad gives him a test.

Big Bill balances his tuna hero, chips, and steaming large coffee on a tray.

Countdown: five minutes to the boy’s first real cop job.

“You knew he’d be here when we got back from the cafeteria, right Dad?”

“I might have wanted him to stew a bit. You get an A, pal.”

You never know when a test is coming, Voort thinks. Dad surprises him when he watches detective TV shows sometimes. “What mistake did the cop make?” he’ll say. Or at the bank: “Notice the bulge under that man’s jacket? Is he a guard or a robber?” Or even while strolling in Washington Square: “See the tall man on this side of Fourth Street and the short guy on the other? How come they eye each other each time a woman with a purse comes up the block?”

Dad says now, “He phoned me. He offered to come in and talk. But was that to help me, Sherlock? Or trick me?”

Voort guesses the maybe-murderer is in his early twenties, same age as Cousin Gus, with a brushed, sand-colored cowlick, turtleneck sweater, and jeans. The guy looks around as if enjoying the ambiance. His crossed leg swings casually. He nods to officers going by.

“Dad, you said to collect facts first.”

Bill nods, sitting down at a nearby desk so the guy doesn’t realize they’re watching. “He owns a brownstone on Seventy-first Street. He inherited it. He wants to sell it, and he even had a great offer, but the last resident—his grandmother—refused to move. On Tuesday she went shopping and was knifed in the street.”

Voort gasps, picturing an old lady rolling a shopping cart down a busy block. A man comes up to her swiftly, then runs away into a crowd. Voort doesn’t put a face on the man yet.

“Where was he when it happened?”

“At his office.”

Frown lines wiggle on the little boy’s head. He takes Dad’s tests seriously. “Do you think he paid someone to do it, like that other man you told me about in Battery Park?”

“A friend of the grandmother’s said he threatened her. She was afraid of him. Eat your pizza while it’s hot.”

Voort chews while the guy across the room gets fidgety, like he’s getting angry waiting. Voort says, “But you said never to believe things people say without proof.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“That means you have no proof.”

Dad takes a bite of pickle and waits for more questions. Life as an immersion into professional suspicion. The boy feels the taxing and pleasant weight of future responsibilities, and a covert thrill from studying the guy.

“Watch a suspect if you can, before talking to him.

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