"Where are you?" he asked. "What's up?"
"We're right outside your house, sir. We were in the area and have some news but didn't want to interrupt your birthday party."
"Good thinking," said Hansen. "Stay where you are." He pulled on a cashmere blazer and went down and out through a gauntlet of backslappings and well wishes. The two were waiting by their car at the end of the drive, hunkered against the falling snow and stamping their feet to stay warm.
"What happened to your vehicle?" asked Hansen. Even with only the glow from his distant porch lights, Hansen could make out the vandalism.
"Fucking homeboys tagged us when we" began Detective Brubaker.
"Hey," said Hansen. "Watch the language." He detested obscenity and vulgarity.
"Sorry, Captain," said Brubaker. "Myers and me were following down a lead this morning when the locals spray-painted the car. We"
"What is this important news that couldn't wait until Monday?" interrupted Hansen. Brubaker and Myers were dishonest, venial cops, associates of that murdered, crooked cop Hathaway, whom the entire department shed crocodile tears for the previous fall. Hansen detested crooked cops even more than he detested obscene language.
"Curly died," said Myers.
Hansen had to think for a second. "Henry Pruitt," he said. One of the three Attica ex-cons found on the I-90. "Did he ever regain consciousness?"
"No, sir," said Brubaker.
"Then what are you bothering me for?" There had been no real evidence on the triple killing, and none of the witnesses' descriptions from the restaurant had matched any of the other's. The uniformed cop who had been sapped remembered nothing and had become the
laughingstock of his division.
"We had a thought," said Detective Myers.
Hansen restrained himself from making the obvious comment. He waited.
"A guy we had a run-in with today is an Attica ex-con," said Brubaker.
"A fourth of the population of our fair city has either been in Attica or is related to someone in Attica," said Hansen.
"Yeah, but this perp probably knew the Stooges," said Myers. "And he had a motive for offing them."
Hansen stood in the snow and waited. Some of his guests were beginning to drive off. The cocktail party had been a casual buffet affair, and only a few of his closest friends were staying for dinner.
"The Cell Block-D Mosque gang had put a fatwa out on our guy," said Brubaker. "Ten thousand dollars. A fatwa is"
"I know what a fatwa is," said Hansen. "I'm probably the only officer in the division who's read Salman Rushdie."
"Yes, sir," said Myers, apologizing for his partner. Click and Clack.
"What's your point?" said Hansen. "That Pruitt, Tyler and Banes" he never used nicknames or disrespectful terms for the dead " were trying to cash in on the D-Block Mosque's bounty and your perp got them first?"
"Yes, sir," said Detective Brubaker.
"What's his name?"
"Kurtz," said Myers. "Joe Kurtz. He's an ex-con himself. Served eleven years on an eighteen-year sentence for"
"Yes, yes," Hansen said impatiently. "I've seen his sheet. He was on the list of suspects for the Farino massacre last November. But there was no evidence to tie him to the scene."
"There never is with this Kurtz," Brubaker said bitterly. Hansen knew Brubaker was talking about the death of his pal Jimmy Hathaway. Hansen had not been in Buffalo long when Hathaway was killed, but Hansen had met the man and thought he was possibly the dumbest cop he'd ever encountered, which was saying a lot. It had been Hansen's professional opinionshared by most of the senior officers, including those who had been in the division for yearsthat Hathaway's ties to the Farino mob had gotten him killed.
"Word on the street has it that Kurtz tossed that drug dealer, Malcolm Kibunte, over Niagara Falls right after he got out of Attica," offered Myers. "Just threw him right over the fucking sorry, Captain."
"I'm getting cold," said Hansen. "What do you want?"
"We been following this Kurtz some on our own time," said Brubaker. "We'd like to make the surveillance official. Three teams can do it. Woltz and Farrell aren't assigned to anything right now and"
Hansen shook his head. "You're it. You want surveillance on this guy, do it on department time for a few days. But don't put in for overtime."
"Aw, Chri cripes, Captain," said Myers. "We've put in twelve hours today already and"
Hansen cut him off with a glance. "Anything else?"
"No, sir," said Brubaker.
"Then please move this piece of junk out of my driveway," said Hansen, turning back toward his lighted house.
CHAPTER NINE
Angelina hated ice hockey. Of course, she hated all organized sports, but hockey bored her the most. The potential of watching these toothless apes skate for an hour with the possibility of no scoreno score at all! made her want to scream. But then again, she had been dragged to Sabres games for almost fourteen years by her late hockey-loving father. The new arena was called HSBC, which stood for some banking thing, but everyone in Buffalo knew that it meant either "Hot Sauce, Blue Cheese" or "Holy Shit, Buffalo's Cold!"