Killer Heat by Linda Fairstein Read Free Book Online Page B

linguine-filled fork against a large spoon, even as
    steam still rose from the clam-covered pasta.
    “You ever see the bodies on the guys who swim the thousand-meter
    crawl?” I asked, reaching out to pinch Mike's side. “Totally buff.
    No NYPD doughnuts. No chips.”
    “They're always soaking wet and they wear bathing caps. Nothing
    sexy about it. Soup cold enough for you?”
    “Very refreshing. Does Jimmy Dylan know you?”
    “Nope. He knew my pop,” Mike said. “Brian worked on a case back
    when I was twelve or thirteen. Two kids who met at the Brazen Head,
    drinking at the bar. Girl wound up dead in Gracie Square Park,
    just south of where the mayor lives.”
    “And what did Dylan have to do with it?”
    “Nothing. And everything. The boy was nineteen years old, just
    off the boat from Ireland. Brought a mean cocaine habit with him.
    Both he and the girl were underage, but Jimmy's crew made them
    welcome at the bar. Three parts cocaine, two parts tequila shots,
    and one part homicidal rage when the girl tried to say ”no“
    transformed the perp into a cold-blooded killer-alcohol courtesy
    of Jimmy Dylan.”
    “So you'd think the SLA would have shut the place down,” I
    said.
    The State Liquor Authority licensed every drinking
    establishment. “All the publicity just gave Dylan's more cachet.
    Jimmy paid a big fine, I think, and by then kids from Connecticut
    and Jersey were queuing up around the block, fake IDs and all, just
    'cause the place had its fifteen minutes of fame.”
    “Are you going to try to find him tonight?” I asked, wiping some
    sauce off Mike's cheek with my napkin while he sliced into his
    chop. “Yeah. Spoils it a bit, though, that Janet gave him a
    heads-up.”
    “I guess I'll be paying you back on that one for a while.” My
    cell phone vibrated on the smooth varnished surface of the bar.
    I picked it up and noted the district attorney's home number in
    the illuminated display before I answered.
    “Good evening, Paul.” I plugged a finger in my left ear and
    walked out to the vestibule, through the crowd waiting for tables,
    so Battaglia wouldn't hear the background noise.
    “How come you're not home yet? I tried you there first. Don't
    you have a big day tomorrow?”
    “I'm on my way. Just having a bite to eat.”
    “Don't let Chapman's appetite run up your bill. You'll go broke
    feeding him.”
    Someday, if I lived long enough, I might get to tell Paul
    Battaglia something he didn't already know. The longtime
    prosecutor had developed an incredible array of sources in the
    unlikeliest of places, and he delighted in putting the information
    he gathered to good use-to solve crimes, respond to critics,
    engage reporters, or simply amuse himself. “I'll cut him off at
    dessert.”
    “Why didn't you come by to tell me about the case Mike brought
    you in on last night?”
    “I didn't think it was going anywhere, Paul. I was in court all
    day on Floyd Warren. We never expected to get a name on the woman
    so fast.”
    Now I was sweating again. There was no fan in the hallway and
    the hot air coming in from Second Avenue was stifling. So was the
    thought that I had done to Battaglia what he liked least-let him
    be the last to know.
    “This Amber Bristol, how was she killed? ”Bludgeoned to
    death."
    “With what?”
    “Don't know yet.” Never a good answer to give the district
    attorney. “Figure it out, will you? The story's already out on the
    wire services,” Battaglia said, pausing between sentences. “I'm
    going to tell you something that has to be held in strictest
    confidence.”
    “Of course.” I walked to the sidewalk and seated myself at one
    of Giuliano's café tables. It was too oppressive for any
    customers to have eaten outside.
    “Have you ever met Herb Ackerman?”
    “No. I've seen him at a few of your press conferences.” Damn,
    the last thing Mike needed was one of the city's best
    investigative reporters breathing down his neck so early in