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“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.
ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
“WE’VE ALREADY GOT PEOPLE doing one of those deep dive things into his phone records,” Danny Esposito says. “His dead wife didn’t pay for that house. But I got this funny feeling Sonny Blum might have.”
“Lot of calls on Harrington’s phone to Sonny’s house,” Jimmy says. “Turns out that Sonny isn’t just old. He’s old school. Still uses a landline.”
The three of us are at a table at Jimmy’s bar on Tuesday night, the night before jury selection begins. Lieutenant Paul Harrington is in custody at the same jail in Riverhead that once housed Rob Jacobson.
“The way I see it laying out,” Jimmy says, “is that Sonny had Harrington in his pocket, all the way back. He worked for Sonny, and Licata and Champi worked for him. The rich guys called Harrington first, not them.”
Jimmy goes quiet now. I see him staring at the Yankee game on the TV set over the bar, but don’t think he’s looking at baseball.
“What?”
“There’s still too much we don’t know,” he says.
He turns to face me. Even in his bar, I imagine a shadow having fallen across his face.
“I gotta ask again: Whowasthe shooter in the dunes?”
