Carmine drank gratefully, and had just put his glass down when his lap suddenly filled with orange fur. “Oh, Jesus, Winston, leave me alone!”
“It’s your hands, Carmine. They stroke so beautifully. Blame them for Winston’s passion. He’s a lap cat.”
“At his size, he’s a menace.”
Desdemona drank her gin and tonic, grinning. “I can hear him purring — what a motor!” She got up and went to the kitchen, returning quickly. “Meat’s on, we’ll eat soon, and you’re going to enjoy it as it should be enjoyed — no bolting it down.”
“I take it the back massage worked?”
“Like a dream. I told you, Carmine, it’s your hands. A pair of miracle workers. Isn’t that true, Winston?”
MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 1969
This was a general conference, held in Commissioner Silvestri’s office, some compensation for the 7 a.m. callout. The coffee was as good as Luigi’s and the Danish and raisin bagels fresh.
“Patrick’s had to recuse himself completely,” Silvestri said, clad in his usual high-necked black sweater and black trousers, “but I talked to Doug Thwaites and we agreed that you shouldn’t recuse yourself, Carmine. Millie’s not your daughter, and she is a cousin to at least half of the Holloman PD. Gus Fennell will be acting on the pathology front, and Paul Bachman will do the forensics. Patrick will be busy handling the rest of the Medical Examiner’s intake. I would prefer that he not be kept in the loop at all, is that clear? Paul and Gus already know, I told them personally.”
“Patsy would never run off at the mouth, sir,” Carmine said.
“I know, but we don’t want some publicity-hungry defense attorney down the track implying that he did.” The sleekly handsome face didn’t change its expression. “Never forget that the quality of defense attorneys is on the rise. Our police work will be squeaky-clean, and the cop who disrupts the evidence chain is looking at a six-month suspension without pay. Signed, sealed and delivered in triplicate, just like Captain Vasquez prescribes. Is that understood?”
Heads nodded solemnly all over the room; Donny Costello, to whom these high stratum conferences were new, looked quite pale. Getting into Detectives was a triumph, but it sure had its down side.
Silvestri finished scanning the faces, satisfied. “Carmine, how are you going to proceed?” he asked.
“First off, sir, we have to monitor activity in both ghettoes, the Hollow and Argyle Avenue. Nick’s been undercover there for four months now, and I don’t want to stop that.”
Nick looked a little torn, but was more elated than he was disappointed; Carmine’s sole African-American detective, he was doomed to remain so for at least several more years, for it took time to produce detectives. Fernando was enlisting black cops and their quality was high, but always with detectives it boiled down to time.
So Nick Jefferson held the African-American fort alone. He was thirty-four years old and the father of two children, and last year the family had suffered a terrible setback when his wife had a serious brain bleed from which she was still recovering. They were modestly well off and lived in the Valley not far from Hampton Street and the Tunbulls; his kids went to the Dormer Day School on part scholarships and a general Jefferson family will to keep them there. His present work held an element of danger, as he performed it in two skins: one was as the hip black detective, the other as a middle-aged malcontent tied to Mohammed el Nesr and the Black Brigade. If it were possible to put the two skins next to each other, even a close observer would not have guessed that they were both Nick Jefferson.
“It’s going to be a violent spring in racial terms,” said Carmine, “and I can manage without Nick, if he’s willing to stay with his project.”
“I’d prefer that, Carmine,” said Nick firmly.
“Thanks for that, it’s appreciated. Abe, Liam and Tony will concentrate on the Tunbull murder without weakening their manpower by chasing after the poison. That job goes to Buzz, who isn’t very well known to any of the participants, including the Doctors Hunter.” He paused, looked suddenly autocratic. “Attention, all men on this case! Don’t be alone with Davina Tunbull, who cries rape and is backed up by her servant, Uda.”
More solemn nods.
“Delia, you’re on the Ivy Hall seating and whatever subtle signs that gives you. There are some odd placements — why, for instance, was Ethan Winthrop on the high table and Judge Thwaites marooned next to a mortal enemy? You can question any woman suspect at any time because you see women differently.”