NYPD Red 2(35)

“I know what you do, missy,” he said. “But why are you doing it here? Some vigilante kilt him and made a video so the whole world would know that Catt deserved it. End of story.”

“Not for us,” Kylie said. “Catt was last seen at his photo studio on Eighty-Seventh Street. His assistant says he went home at around six. His mailbox was empty, so we’re pretty sure he came home that evening. There was evidence in his apartment that he made himself some dinner, but then he disappeared. You live next door. We thought you might be able to corroborate that you saw or heard him come home, or maybe you heard him when he left.”

LaFleur shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?” Kylie said.

“My answer is I didn’t,” he said. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. That pervert bastard murdered my wife. It was just nine days before our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Nine days. I told her not to agree to testify.”

His breathing became labored, and he sucked deeply on his oxygen.

“We understand how you feel about Catt,” Kylie said. “But withholding evidence is a felony.”

He laughed. “You got no clue how I feel. As for your felony threat, that’s the laugh. There’s this Hazmat Killer on the loose, and you cops are supposed to find him. It’s gonna look real good on your report cards if the only guy you arrest is a Vietnam vet whose wife was murdered, and who does the perp walk dragging this iron lung behind him.”

He held out his hands. “Go ahead, missy,” he challenged. “Cuff me.”

Kylie pulled back. “Horton,” she said. “May I call you Horton?”

He looked at her, his eyes blazing with rage. “No. You and I are not on a first-name basis.”

“Fair enough,” Kylie said. “Mr. LaFleur, we’re not here to arrest you, but there is a vigilante killer out there, and—”

“How old are you?” LaFleur said.

“Thirty-four.”

“You’re not old enough to remember Bernie Goetz, are you,” he said. “It was back in the eighties. He got beat up something fierce at a subway station by three punk kids. An off-duty cop jumped in and managed to grab one of them, but the other two got away. The kid that got arrested spent half as much time in the police station as Goetz. Half the time—and then, all they charged this little shit bucket with was criminal mischief for ripping Goetz’s jacket. After that, Goetz applied to the city for a handgun permit. Went through proper channels, and guess what happened.”

“His application was turned down,” Kylie said.

“Right,” LaFleur said. “A couple of years later, Goetz is on another subway, and four young hoods try to mug him again. Only this time, he’s ready. Fuck the permit. Goetz has got himself a thirty-eight. Bang, bang, bang, bang—he shoots all four of them.”

“It’s a famous case, Mr. LaFleur,” Kylie said. “I’m well aware of it.”

“Then you know the ending,” he said. “One kid winds up in a wheelchair. The other three all recover from their wounds and go back to a life of crime—robbery, rape, you name it. But Goetz—that poor bastard was convicted of criminal possession of a weapon and did time in jail. Now you tell me, Detectives—who’s the bad guy, and who’s the victim?”

We didn’t answer. He really wasn’t looking for one.

“Bernie Goetz was called the Subway Vigilante,” LaFleur said, “and a lot of people vilified him. Not me. Me—I thought he was a hero. Same goes for the guy who killed Sebastian Catt. Believe me, if I was twenty years younger, and if I could breathe without this damn anchor I carry around, I’d have killed the bastard myself.”

He picked up his wedding photo and stared at his wife of fifty years minus nine days.

“That’s all I got to say,” he said, jerking his head up and gesturing toward the door. “You can go.”

Out of habit, I dropped my card on the spot where the picture had been.

It would probably be in the garbage before Kylie and I made it to the car.





Chapter 33



“He knows something,” Kylie said as soon as we were out of earshot.

“One thing he knows is how to get you to back off…missy,” I said.

“I cut the crusty old codger some slack because he’s a veteran and his wife was murdered,” she said. “If he were forty years younger, I wouldn’t have been so nice.”

“And yet as nice as you were, you and Horton are still not on a first-name basis.”

She shrugged. “Okay, I may have pushed his buttons a little too hard, but you have to admit he knows something.”