Red on Red by Edward Conlon

Author:Edward Conlon [Conlon, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-679-60441-9
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-04-04T21:00:00+00:00

There was much to plan, but Nick’s mind was scattered. Esposito had resolved to go to the wake, at least to watch it from a rooftop, and Nick knew that once they got there, he’d have a hard time getting Esposito to leave. It had the feel of a long night. A camera had been set up outside the funeral home, and someone would watch the monitor with Kiko’s mug shot taped up beside it. But it wouldn’t be the same; no one knew Kiko like Esposito did, how he walked and gestured, which way he was likely to run. Detectives always complained about not getting enough help on their cases, and then they complained about the help. Still, it was better to do it themselves. And worse—no one should get too close to the funeral, least of all the cops who’d caused it. If Nick and Esposito spotted Kiko, they’d call it in, have him collared a few blocks away. Esposito talked even as he turned up the radio in the car. Noise within, noise without.

On the drive back, Nick only half-listened as Esposito told about how when he was a new cop in the precinct, someone called in to say that a baby had been left in a sack in the park. A young couple stood beside it, watching something inside kick weakly, afraid to touch. Turns out it was a Santeria thing, a chicken in a pillow case…. It was a good enough story, but Nick was trying to think about his father, whether he should worry about him, whether he should worry more. Memories of Daysi from last night kept popping up—the restaurant, the museum, bed, how they’d shushed each other like teenagers, the fear of getting caught adding to the thrill. He was about to tell Esposito about the Galway vacation, when they were diverted by the sight of two blue-and-white harbor patrol launches in the Harlem River, cops from each raking the turbid water between them with long-poled gaffs. A body, maybe, but since the boats were on the Bronx side of the river, it looked to be someone else’s problem. Esposito began to tell about a floater he once had, but Nick’s eye was caught by a pigeon flying beside the car, at eye level, at the exact same speed, for nearly a mile. “Synchronous,” was that the word? No, it wasn’t.

At the precinct, Esposito went behind the desk to let the sergeant know about the funeral, so he could make an announcement at the four-to-twelve roll call to be aware of its hot-spot potential. Nick steered clear of a delegation of Africans in the front hall, five or six men in lacy skullcaps, a few women in bundled head scarves, all of them in florid flowing robes, with determined looks. One of the men was negotiating unsuccessfully with a gaunt older black cop for the release of a female prisoner. If the cop had been assigned to handle them out of a presumed affinity, it was misguided.

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