The Righteous Men (2006) Read Online Free Page A

what was once a down-at-heel
Brooklyn neighbourhood into a little patch of yuppie heaven. As Will made for
the Bergen Street subway station, he felt conscious that he was walking faster
than everyone else. This was a working weekend for him, too.
    Once at the office, he wasted no time and went straight to Harden, who was
turning the pages of the New York Post with a speed that conveyed
derision.
    ‘Glenn, how about “Anatomy of a Killing: the real life of a
crime statistic”?’
    ‘I’m listening.’
    ‘You know, “Howard Macrae might seem like just another brief on
the inside pages, another New York murder victim.
    But what Was he like? What had his life been about? Why was he killed?”‘
    Harden stopped flicking through the Post and looked up. ‘Will,
I’m a suburban guy in South Orange whose biggest worry is getting my two
daughters to school in the morning.’ This was not hypothetical; this was
true. ‘Why do I care about some dead pimp in Brownsville?’
    ‘You’re right. He’s just some name on a police list. But don’t
you think our readers want to know what really happens when someone gets
murdered in this city?’
    He could see Harden was undecided. He was short on reporters: it was the
Jewish New Year, which meant the Times newsroom was badly depleted, even
by weekend standards.
    The paper had a large Jewish staff and now most of them were off work to
mark the religious holiday. But neither did he want to admit that he had become
so tired, even murder no longer interested him.
    ‘Tell you what. Make a few calls, go down there. See what you get. If
it makes something, we can talk about it.’
    Will asked the cab driver to hang around. He needed to be
mobile for the next few hours and that meant having a car on stand-by. If he
was honest, it also made him feel safer to have the reassuring bulk of a car
close at hand. On these streets, he did not want to be completely alone.
    Within minutes he was wondering if it had been worth the trip. Officer
Federico Penelas, the first policeman on the scene, was a reluctant
interviewee, offering only one-word Answers.
    ‘Was there a commotion when you got down here?’
    ‘Nah-uh.’
    ‘Who was here?’
    ‘Just one or two folks. The lady who made the call.’
    ‘Did you talk to her at all?’
    ‘Just took down the details of what she’d seen, when she’d
seen it. Thanked her for calling the New York Police Department.’ The
consultants’ script again.
    ‘And is it your job to lay that blanket on the victim?’
    For the first time, Penelas smiled. The expression was one of mockery rather
than warmth. You know nothing. ‘That wasn’t a police blanket.
Police use zip-up body bags. That blanket was already on him when I got here.’
    ‘Who laid it out?’
    ‘Dunno. Reckon it was whoever found the dead guy. Mark of respect or
something. Same way they closed the victim’s eyes. People do that: they’ve
seen it in the movies.’
    Penelas refused to identify the woman who had discovered the corpse, but in
a follow-up phone call the DCPI was more forthcoming — on background, of
course. At last Will had a name: now he could get stuck in.
    He had to walk through the projects to find her. A sixfoot-two Upper East
Side guy in chinos and blue linen jacket with an English accent, he felt
ridiculous and intensely white as he moved through this poor, black
neighbourhood. The buildings were not entirely derelict but they were in bad shape.
Graffiti, stairwells that smelled of piss, and plenty of broken windows. He
would have to buttonhole whoever was out of doors and hope they would talk.
    He made an instant rule: stick to the women. He knew this was a cowardly
impulse but, he assured himself, that was nothing to be ashamed of. He had once
read some garlanded foreign correspondent saying the best war reporters were
the cowards: the brave ones were reckless and ended up dead.
    This was not exactly the Middle East, but a kind of war whether over drugs
or gangs or