Death's Witness by Paul Batista Read Free Book Online Page A

she wanted, either full-time or part-time; and that Special Agent McGlynn wanted to speak with her.
    “Who is he?”
    “All he would tell me was that he was an FBI agent with what he said was the Organized Crime Strike Force. He said he thought it would be better if I told you he wanted to speak with you instead of his just showing up on your doorstep. He said he didn’t know who else to call to get through to you.”
    “The NYPD said they were handling this.”
    “Apparently they need help from a higher authority.”
    Julie tried to joke. “And I thought the police were New York’s finest. Every last one of them a hero, at least since 9/11.”
    Laconically, Wasserman said, “McGlynn wants to see you soon.”
    “Sure.” She was subdued again. “I want to talk to him. Or to anybody who can help, if there’s anybody anywhere in the world who can do that. But, Stan, when it happened it was dark. Seven D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
    million people live in this crazy city, everybody’s hopped up.
    Anybody and everybody could have done it.”
    Stan Wasserman was matter-of-fact. “When do you want to see him?”
    “Ask if he can see me tomorrow. But, Stan,” she added quickly,
    “I don’t want to go to him. See if he can come uptown.”
    “I’m sure he will; he’s anxious to talk to you.”
    “Ask if he’ll meet me at eleven tomorrow morning at the coffee shop at 79th and Madison. It’s called Nectar. The one on the southwest corner.”

37
    “I’ll call him.”
    “But how will he know me?”
    “How? Your pictures, Julie, your pictures. You’ve been on television a great deal lately. Newspapers, too. Magazines. Haven’t you seen?”
    “I haven’t noticed anything, Stan. I’ve been sleepwalking.”
    “Stay strong,” Stan Wasserman said, awkwardly. “And call me if you need anything.”

    * * *
    McGlynn looked exactly as she’d expected, about forty, blue eyes, a full head of closely cropped, sandy hair, dressed neatly in a light blue suit. He introduced himself as “Special Agent McGlynn,”
    in a Brooklyn accent, too polite. He wore too much sandalwood cologne. Its residue stayed on her fingers after she shook his hand. As she sipped her strong coffee at a table near the window overlooking the sunny intersection at 79th and Madison, she decided after the first few words that she didn’t like him, that he was one of those retirement-obsessed, unimaginative veterans of government service who were marking time. This guy, she thought, will never find the man who killed my husband.
    McGlynn said he had been a fan of Tom when Tom was with the Jets and he even remembered a Vikings–Jets game at Shea Sta-dium on a cold day when Tom scored two touchdowns. “He was real fast, people used to say that, sportswriters, and I remember P A U L B A T I S T A
    when I saw him, I thought, that’s right: he’s got speed and balance.
    And strength. I remember that. It was a big thrill to see him on the field.”
    He sounded, to Julie, like one of those guys who calls all-night sports-talk radio shows—washed-out, empty macho guys with nothing better to do with their time and their lives than talk about the easiest subjects in the world—sports and the people who play sports.
    “Look, Mr. McGlynn,” Julie said. “It’s difficult for me to talk about those things. I appreciate your saying them, but I can’t talk 38
    about that kind of thing. I was never much of a football fan. I never saw him play. He was my husband. That’s how I always thought about him.”
    McGlynn abruptly looked her straight in the eyes. Suddenly his blue eyes conveyed to Julie what blue eyes in men had always conveyed: cold, passionless calculation, almost always about sex.
    Now more businesslike, he explained he was one of a group of federal agents assigned to look into her husband’s death. He said the United States government had an interest in finding out who was responsible for what happened to Tom Perini.
    “I thought the New