One Hundred Thirteen Jimmy

ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

Jimmy

THEY DON'T FINISH WITH the town police and the county police until it's past four in the morning. Jane and Jimmy drive into East Hampton after that to formally give their statements. Chief Larry Calabrese is waiting for them. Jimmy tells Calabrese what he needs when he and Jane are finished.

Calabrese says he'll do his best.

Jimmy doesn't tell him about the phone but promises Jane he'll hand it over to the police later.

Jane drives Jimmy back to her house. Jimmy gets into his car and heads back home to Sag Harbor and wakes up Detective Craig Jackson. Craig Jackson: who has turned into the kind of wingman that Mickey Dunne was. Another old dog with a bone.

Jackson and Jimmy commence working the phones, starting with Anthony Licata's burner. Jackson says he's going to wake some people up, screw 'em, this shit matters to him now, too, and get as many phone logs as he can, both numbers, at this time of the morning.

At seven thirty, time to put a bow on this before word of the shootings gets out, so Jimmy drives over there.

He's clearly shocked to see Jimmy standing there when he opens the front door, looking as if Jimmy woke him up. But then he told Jimmy he likes to sleep late.

Jimmy uses the same raspy voice he'd used when he answered Licata's phone at the Walking Dunes, and had done a damn good impression of Anthony Licata, if he did say so himself, his voice muffled just enough by the wind and bad cell service out there.

"You asked me over the phone if it was done," Jimmy says to retired lieutenant Paul Harrington. "Well, you are."

Harrington opens his mouth and closes it.

It's a caught look that Jimmy knows well. A look that all cops know. Harrington has just never been behind it, until now.

"You probably wondered why he had the call on speaker," Jimmy says. "But when I saw it was you calling him to ask if Janie and me were dead, I wanted her to hear it too, her being an officer of the court and all."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harrington says.

Harrington's not moving. Neither is Jimmy. Harrington's wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Nowhere to put a gun. But Jimmy's is handy if he needs it.

"Funny thing," Jimmy says. "Before Licata died, Jane thought he said ‘Who,' when I asked who sent him. But that's not what I heard. I heard him say ‘Lieu.' Rhymes with you. What you said he used to call you. And probably still did, since he was still working for you, you sonofabitch."

Harrington tries to shut the door now. Jimmy is already through it, shoving Harrington back into the foyer with both hands, knocking him sideways into a small antique table against the wall, as pretty as his flowers. Then Jimmy has his gun on him, just in case.

The guy was a cop once, if maybe the dirtiest one of all.

Jimmy uses his free hand to take out Licata's burner phone.

"You've been out of the game too long," Jimmy says to him. "Phones like this have memories, too."

"I'm not saying another word," Harrington says. "You only have what you think you have."

"I have a call that we'll prove came from your phone and that I answered," Jimmy says. "One that Jane Smith heard. The aforementioned officer of the court. ‘Is it done?' you say. And I say, ‘You mean, did I kill them?' And you say, ‘Of course that's what I mean, what the hell did you think I sent you there to do?' She figures we got your ass. Accessory to attempted murder, conspiracy. The state cops have probably already gotten a judge to sign off on an arrest warrant."

"Good luck with that," Harrington says. "You need to tie a rock to this shit before it floats away."

Jimmy watches Harrington give a little shrug to his shoulders now, straightening, like a boxer Jimmy has hit with a straight right hand in the old days, trying to gather himself even after his bell has been rung.

"Licata could barely talk at the end," Jimmy says. "But he said he had proof. And you know what the cops found on his laptop, not even password protected? Some of the phone calls he taped with you over the years. The insurance policy he talked about before he closed his eyes for good. No honor among thieves, am I right, Lieu?"

Harrington doesn't acknowledge what Jimmy just said. He's smiling to himself now, nodding, as if there's no problem here, he's still in charge.

"You know what I think?" Harrington says.

"That you're screwed about twelve ways to Sunday?"

"I think that if you're not going to use that gun, get the hell out of my house," Harrington says.

"Have it your way."

"You're not a cop anymore, Cunniff," Harrington says. "You can't arrest me."

The door opens then and Danny Esposito comes walking in, warrant in one hand, handcuffs in the other.

"I can," he says, and then starts reading the former commander of detectives, 24th Precinct, his rights.