Page 30 of Crosshairs

We backed out of the house and walked down the pavers to the street.

Trilling said, “I’m impressed. I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you could tussle like that.”

“Icando it, I just don’t like to.”

Trilling glanced back at the house, then said, “Real nice folks, you New Yorkers.”

I chuckled at that. Then I said, “Ready to head up to the Bronx for what I hope is a calmer interview?”

“I’ll meet you at the office at one. I have to run to an appointment right now. Sorry.”

All I could do was stare at him. Just when I’d thought I had Rob Trilling figured out, I realized I was wrong.

CHAPTER 37

TRUE TO HIS word, Rob Trilling walked into the office at 1 p.m., just as I finished my Lenwich turkey and provolone sub.

I was still annoyed about our morning workout session with the Staten Island firefighters. I asked, “Did you eat?”

“Not hungry.”

A few minutes later, we were both in my Chevy Impala, headed north to the Bronx to interview Wendy Robinson. The tipster had said that Robinson worked out daily at a hybrid boxing-wrestling gym.

The Bronx had evolved over the years. There was a time when people were uneasy going to the Bronx, but in recent years local activists had brought in a number of grants and set up programs for kids. People who don’t live in disadvantaged areas often have a hard time grasping the connection, but as a cop, I know how valuable youth programs can be to deterring crime.

We drove through Kingsbridge Heights, looking for the gym. We had to stop for a few minutes in front of the community center while some news crews interviewed a tall, good-looking Latino man. He was dressed in a nicely cut suit and seemed familiar.

Trilling shook his head and muttered something.

I said, “What’s with you?”

Trilling pointed at the man speaking to reporters. “You know who that is?”

I took another look and shook my head.

“That’s Gus Querva. I looked for his brother, Antonio, on a homicide warrant out of Baltimore. Antonio is supposed to be hiding in the city somewhere. The whole family is a bunch of dirtbags. They organize the gangs up here in the Bronx and then put on the front of trying to help the neighborhood. The whole time they’re squeezing businesses for protection money. They haven’t helped the neighborhood, they’ve ruined it. Guys like that make me sick to my stomach.”

I rolled down my window to see if I could catch what Querva was saying. He was talking about programs for kids, bringing qualified teachers to the area. I didn’t hear anything I could disagree with.

And just like that the impromptu news conference was over. I noticed Trilling’s eyes track Querva as he stepped away from the microphones. It was one of the first times I’d seen actual emotion in Trilling’s face. Maybe the captain I’d met at West Point was right: Trilling did have passion.

I drove past the community center slowly and let Trilling stare at his nemesis as Querva walked and spoke with several reporters trotting along with him.

I said to Trilling, “We can’t fix everything.”

“Then what’s the point?”

I had to think about that for a few seconds. I felt like I was back in my philosophy classes at Manhattan College. Finally I said, “The point is to do the best we can with what we have. There’s another side to the law-and-order equation. People have to work with us. People have to want things to get better.”

“That’s why things always stay the same. Bullies bully, thieves steal, and no one’s willing to do much about it.”

CHAPTER 38

IT TOOK LONGER than I’d expected to find the gym where Wendy Robinson worked out. The reason we couldn’t find it was because the gym had absolutely no advertising. There weren’t the usual bay windows where you could look in and see people getting fit. There was no sign on the door or on the side of the building.

We had parked and were walking down the sidewalk when I saw a homeless man sitting on the steps of a closed business. I thought I could take a moment to show Rob Trilling one of the tricks of being a detective in New York City: make use of all available information. Homeless people generally spend their time outside. Usually that’s in one neighborhood. That makes homeless people experts on who comes and goes and who belongs in certain neighborhoods.

It was hard to tell how old the man sitting on the steps was. Somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five. His gray hair wascut short, but his beard traveled the length of his chest almost to his belly button.