Hurt Machine (Moe Prager Book 7) by Reed Farrel Coleman

Author:Reed Farrel Coleman [Coleman, Reed Farrel]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781446354209
Publisher: F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2011-11-18T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

I was confused. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Who the fuck was Maya Watson talking about? No one in this entire mess was innocent. I suppose she might have been talking about Jorge Delgado, but that couldn’t be right. Any fool could see I was already taking a hard look at Delgado and Maya Watson was no fool. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough at him to suit her or maybe she didn’t like the fact that Delgado—guilty of Alta’s murder or not—had been beatified in the press. I mean, getting killed while saving the life of a little girl is a kind of permanent baptism. One good act, your last act, and all your sins get washed away. It’s like getting dunked in the cleansing waters and never needing to come up for air. Is that what Maya was referring to? I don’t know, there was something obvious I wasn’t getting. Wouldn’t be the first time for that either.

My cell phone vibrated and chimed in my pocket to remind me I had a voicemail message. I got off the crowded, noisy street and retreated to my car to listen. The car still smelled of Maya Watson’s vaguely sweet perfume. The message was from Detective Fuqua, but I would have recognized his voice even if he hadn’t given his name. He left his cell number and told me it was important to call him back as soon as possible.

“Mr. Prager, it hurts my feelings when you do not pick up my phone calls,” he said. “And it makes me suspicious as well.”

“You sound like a jealous wife, Detective.”

“I suppose.”

“Sorry, but I was busy making arrangements,” I lied. “My daughter is getting married in a few weeks.”

“Really? Fantastique! Mazel tov. You must be on schpilkes, on pins and needles, yes?”

His French I might have expected, but his Yiddish caught me off guard. “Your Yiddish is good, Detective Fuqua. Are there many Haitian Jews?”

“I worked in community relations in the Seven-One. Big Caribbean and Hasidic populations in the neighborhood. I got along very well with the Hasidim. They have great respect for the police.”

“For the law, Detective Fuqua, not the police. Those are two very different things. Jews are naturally suspicious of agents of the state. Long history of persecution at the hands of those agents, don’t you know?”

“Have you ever heard of the Tonton Macoute, Mr. Prager?”

“Papa Doc’s own private little terror squad.”

“Just so. No one need lecture a Haitian on distrust of the police.”

“Fair enough. So you and the Hasidim made nice. That explains your Yiddish, but it doesn’t explain how you knew I was Jewish.”

“Oh, but Mr. Prager, I know many things about you that you might not suspect. We should discuss them over lunch.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“That seems like such a waste of time, non? Why wait until tomorrow when you are sitting in your car on Stillwell Avenue at this moment?”

My skin prickled and I felt a solitary bead of sweat roll along my ribs. “How the fuck do you know where I am?”

“Such language, Mr.

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