I looked at Lise and said, “The problem is there are still a lot of good cops in Newburgh. For your sake, let’s hope there’s at least one other good attorney.”

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

THE GRAY CLOUDS that hung low in the sky over Woodlawn Cemetery in New Windsor matched my mood exactly. The cold crept into my bones as I stood next to my brother. The crowd of friends and family listened to a Presbyterian minister say a few words over Katie Stahl’s grave. Her family wanted nothing to do with Natty and that suited him fine.

It had been six days since the “shootout in Poughkeepsie,” as the newspapers called it. Katie had been listed as a victim of a cop gone bad. That was better than I had hoped she’d be represented. The media tended to focus on the more sensational aspects of a case like this, so naturally, they wanted to talk about the corrupt cop in this sting. That caught people’s attention. Not the fact that other cops jumped to make the case against Mike Tharpe and set things right as soon as they found out about it. All anyone talked about was a single bad apple.

If I was mentioned in any story, it was always as someone trying to help his brother who’d been charged with a murder. I was worried someone would use the phrase “private investigator,” and I’d have to explain myself to the New York Department of Business and Professional Regulation. There may not have been a specific charge about impersonating a private investigator, but I’m sure someone would have charged me a decent fine, and my days of helping the residents of Marlboro might be over.

Some of the news stories liked to show photos of Lise Mendez and talk about the pretty attorney who’d been involved in a drug conspiracy. She was now being held without bond on a slew of charges.

As for Mike Tharpe, he pled guilty to the murders of Alton Beatty and Katie Stahl, after I’d handed in his confession tape for Pete’s murder. That would help reduce his sentence, but he’d still be away for a long time.

After the service, we walked to Natty’s leased red Chevy Camaro with its extra-wide twenty-two-inch rear wheels. It looked like something a seventeen-year-old would drive.

As I slipped into the passenger seat I said, “You know, I could’ve driven.”

Natty let out a short laugh and said, “I can’t be seen in a car like yours. Sorry, no offense.”

We drove through Newburgh on 9W in silence. I noticed Natty was pushing it and we were cruising at over seventy.

I said, “We’re going a little fast, aren’t we?”

“I thought you were a fake private investigator, not a fake cop.”

I chuckled and mumbled, “Funny.”