Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  The announcer then went on to outline the high points of the senator’s career.

  Ben listened closely. Cunningham dead? That was startling news, the senator’s age notwithstanding. To say he’d been the head of one of America’s richest and most influential families was putting it mildly; the Cunninghams were way up there, almost on the same level as the Rockefellers and the du Ponts and the Kennedys. They’d given millions to charity, had even founded a hospital. And under the senator’s direction, their foundation had continued to donate large sums of money to an endless number of good causes.

  The man had also been a power in both New York and national politics for as long as Ben could remember. Whether you agreed with his political beliefs or not, most of what he’d engineered and what he stood for was positive. Unlike a good many rich families, the Cunninghams had always displayed strong civic responsibility. The city, and the country as well, would miss him.

  But wait a minute.

  He died while being interviewed for a magazine article—at night? What was that all about?

  Or am I just being characteristically suspicious, he asked himself, the result of having spent almost twenty years as a cop in the crime capital of America? It could do that to you, he knew.

  The radio continued to babble, but he paid little attention to the remainder of the newscast. He ate the toast smeared with butter and blackberry jam—what the hell, one bunch of doctors said cholesterol would choke your arteries, while another claimed it was good for you—and stopped thinking about the death of the senator. He had other things on his mind—such as his chances for promotion.

  The last word he’d had was from his boss, Captain Michael Brennan, zone commander of the Sixth, Ninth, and Tenth Precinct detective squads. Brennan was about to be moved up to the rank of deputy inspector, and it was odds-on Ben would be tapped to take his place. Brennan hadn’t come right out and said so, but the implications were clear enough.

  It was strange, but as much as Ben wanted the prestige and the respect that went with the job—to say nothing of the extra money—he also felt a certain ambivalence. The further up the chain of command you went, the more you had to deal with politics and administrative work, and those were two aspects of police work he loathed.

  Which was another thing about life: Even when it was good, which for most people was unusual, it was never altogether good. There was always a certain amount of shit you had to put up with.

  Unless you were somebody like Clayton Cunningham, and how many of those were there?

  It would be blustery outside; Ben decided to wear his raincoat. He got it out of the front-hall closet and put it on, then automatically checked to see that he had keys, money clip, wallet, pocketknife, and the case containing his shield and ID. With everything on board, he turned toward the door.

  The telephone rang.

  For a moment, he was tempted to ignore it and get the hell out of there. Answering telephones early in the morning was dumb.

  But then curiosity got to him, as it invariably did. He stepped back into the living room and picked up the instrument. “Tolliver.”

  “Lieutenant, this is Chief Houlihan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Glad I caught you. I called the Sixth and they told me you weren’t coming in until later.”

  The curiosity Ben had felt at hearing the phone ring was nothing compared to what he was experiencing now. Houlihan was in charge of all detectives in the NYPD. For him to contact Tolliver personally was unusual. Normally, he would have gone through either Captain Brennan or Anthony Galupo, chief of detectives in the borough of Manhattan. Was the call in connection with Tolliver’s imminent promotion?

  Houlihan dispelled that notion with what he said next. “Lieutenant, I have a special assignment for you.”

  There was a note of annoyance in the chief’s tone. “I got a call from the district attorney’s office a few minutes ago. They want to borrow an officer who can work on an investigation and be discreet about it. There are certain factors that make the situation sensitive. In other words, the guy has to be able to keep his mouth shut. You understand?”

  “Sure, Chief. Can you tell me what it’s about?”

  “You’ll get all that from the DA. Go to his office right away; report directly to him. I’ll notify Chief Galupo and Captain Brennan. Brennan will let your squad know you’re on a special assignment and that you’ll be back in a few days. You got that, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “One other thing. Remember who you work for. No matter what the DA says, I want you to keep us fully informed of what’s going on. Confidentially, of course, through Brennan. As soon as you have this thing sized up, check in.” He hung up.

  When Tolliver put the phone down, he stood there for a moment, again staring out the window. Most of the east wall was glass, to take advantage of the spectacular view. A tugboat was coming down the river, moving fast in the swift current, and streams of vehicles were crawling in both directions across the Manhattan Bridge. Crowds of tourists were already swarming about the Seaport. But Ben only half-saw all that as he turned over the chief’s words in his mind.

  A special assignment to be undertaken for the DA? One shrouded in secrecy? No wonder the chief had sounded pissed. But then, much of what went on within the DA’s office stirred up resentment among the police brass.

  For one thing, the DA not only had his own detectives; he had four separate units of them. One consisted of men on loan from the police department who worked on complaints the DA felt warranted independent investigation. Technically, this group was under the command of Houlihan, but that was merely according to a table of organization. In fact, the chief rarely knew what these guys were up to, and as a result, he looked on them with suspicion.

  For good reason. Not only did the detectives hide behind a screen erected by the DA’s office; they were people with political connections that kept them safely ensconced in their cushy jobs. As investigators, they were very good at typing reports and drinking coffee and calculating their pensions. They were so well insulated that not even Internal Affairs messed with them. The unit was headed by a captain, who had the cushiest job of all.

  The second unit was worse. It was comprised of civilian investigators hired by the district attorney and had nothing to do with the NYPD. There were eight or ten of these people, and most cops considered them a bunch of college-trained assholes who were long on theory and short on ability. Some of the time, they investigated complaints against the police that were thought too sensitive for either the review board or IA to handle, which caused cops not merely to hold them in contempt but to hate them.

  The third unit was an offshoot of the Rackets Bureau, and the investigators in that one were mostly involved in digging for evidence that could be used in RICO prosecutions. Some of what they did was street work, but mainly it consisted of uncovering paper trails of corruption. This group was headed by a one-time NYPD detective who now had the title of captain, although his command consisted of no more than a dozen men and women.

  Lastly, there was the Jade Squad, detectives who dealt with organized crime among Orientals, an area that had burgeoned in New York over the last ten years. The bad guys this unit chased were some of the most difficult to cope with, operating in drugs, extortion, prostitution, and murder according to their own mysterious codes, speaking dozens of different Asian languages and dialects.

  So with a mob of his own detectives to choose from, why had the DA asked for a man who had no connection with the office and who wasn’t even known to him, except possibly by reputation?

  Because, just as Houlihan had said, the assignment was sensitive, requiring an officer who could keep his mouth shut. That meant it would be fraught with political implications, with two or more factions tugging in different directions. The chief was already demanding the police brass be kept informed without the DA knowing it.

  In other words, it was the kind of job that offered you a sligh
t chance to help your career and a much larger opportunity to fall on your ass.

  He looked at the telephone and wished he hadn’t answered it. Then he went into his bedroom and put on a tie, a blue-and-white stripe. After that, he left the apartment, locking and double-locking the door behind him.

  4

  The Manhattan DA’s office was in the Criminal Justice Building, one of the drearier of the many dreary structures housing branches of New York City government. Located at 100 Centre Street, the delapidated pile of stone put Tolliver in mind of a medieval fortress whenever he entered it.

  This was where justice was dispensed on an assembly-line basis. Where the courts were in session around the clock, with legions of assistant district attorneys each handling between two hundred and three hundred cases a day, bargaining most of them down to dis cons—charges of disorderly conduct—just to keep things moving. Where in the small hours of the morning, cops slept on the floors of the hallways outside courtrooms, waiting to be called, while inside the rooms harassed judges tried to deal with a flow of cases that grew ever larger, never smaller. It was the Bedlam of criminal law.

  As Ben walked in this morning, the south entrance hall was crowded as usual with all types of miscreants—burglars and fare beaters, boosters and prostitutes, muggers and murderers. Moving among them were their lawyers and the vast numbers of clerks and police officers and prison guards and judges and prosecutors who were all part of the system. The granite walls and the gray-green stone floor echoed with the sounds of their chatter and their footsteps.

  Tolliver flashed his ID to a court officer and stepped into an elevator. The car was filled with people who looked either nervous or bored—some of them the accused, others their attorneys, still others the accusers. It was impossible to tell who was what. When he got off, he had to show his ID twice more before being admitted to the waiting room outside the DA’s private office.

  The district attorney of New York County was a famous man from a famous family. Henry Oppenheimer had what probably was the most visible prosecutorial job in the United States. The son of a high-ranking official in the Roosevelt administration, his name was linked with cases that had held the entire nation in thrall, cases the media had exploited endlessly: the Central Park Jogger, the Preppie Murderer, and dozens more. There was never a time when he wasn’t at the center of controversy.

  It was a job that would have killed many people, but Oppenheimer seemed to relish it. A quiet, soft-spoken man with a kindly face and a wreath of white hair, he looked more like the dean of some remote New England college than what he was: a brilliant legal mind with the tenacity and the killer instinct of a shark. Not since the days of Thomas E. Dewey had the office been occupied by one who understood so well how to use its power.

  Tolliver had never met the man, had seen him only a few times, and then at a distance. He told Oppenheimer’s secretary who he was and was waved to a bench. Sitting there with his raincoat on his lap, he felt slightly apprehensive, like a kid waiting to be called into the principal’s office. Whatever this mysterious assignment turned out to be, he could be sure of one thing: It would have an impact on his career, one way or another. He could only hope it might be for the better.

  A steady flow of people were going in and out of the office, all of them stepping briskly, looking important. The secretary and two trial-preparation assistants were screening them, but apparently most of the visitors were staff, bureau chiefs and senior prosecutors. Tolliver imagined he’d have a considerable wait.

  Not so. After about ten minutes, one of the TPAs approached the bench he was sitting on and told him to follow her. He did, and a moment later found himself inside a wood-paneled chamber, facing Oppenheimer himself.

  For a man his age, the DA appeared to be remarkably fit. Lean and slightly built, he had on a dark gray suit and a red tie that set off the white hair and his ruddy skin. And from his manner, you’d think he had nothing more to do than show interest in a lowly detective squad commander. He shook Ben’s hand and smiled warmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Lieutenant. All of it good. In fact, I remember the work you did on a number of difficult cases.”

  Ben nodded, hoping he seemed modest.

  Oppenheimer gestured toward a pair of well-worn brown leather armchairs at the far end of the room. “Let’s sit over here, shall we?”

  The assistant hung Ben’s coat on a clothes tree and bowed out, shutting the door behind her.

  Ben sat down and made a quick appraisal of his surroundings. The room contained a scarred desk with stacks of paper covering its surface and a half dozen chairs grouped around a conference table. Behind the desk was an eagle-topped pole with an American flag draped from it. A few framed photographs were hanging on the walls and some old wooden filing cabinets and a pair of bookcases stood against the walls. And that was it. All business, plainly functional, nothing pretentious. Set for action, like the DA himself.

  Oppenheimer was watching him, making an appraisal of his own. The smile stayed in place. “Nice morning out there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is,” Ben said.

  “Fall is my favorite time of year. The summer’s over; everybody’s back to work. Makes you feel invigorated. But it’s over too soon, don’t you think? Here we are with Thanksgiving only a few days away. How about a cup of coffee, Lieutenant?”

  “If you’re having one.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “Black, please.”

  Oppenheimer picked up a telephone from the small table beside his chair and spoke into it. When he hung up, he said, “I wonder if you’ve heard the news about the death of Senator Cunningham.”

  In one shot, everything came together. Ben now knew why he was here, why the assignment was one that required the services of a detective who was outside the DA’s own forces, why Oppenheimer had requested a man who could be relied upon not to talk about his mission. Apparently, Tolliver wasn’t the only one who’d wondered about the way Clayton Cunningham had checked out.

  He nodded. “Yes, sir, I did hear about it—on the radio this morning.”

  “A great loss,” the DA said. “The senator was a fine man, and a personal friend of mine for many years.”

  That was interesting. It was well known that Oppenheimer was on the opposite side of the political spectrum from Cunningham. Apparently when you got to a certain stage, personal feelings transcended politics. Or did they?

  “It would be hard to think of anyone who served the people of New York better than he did,” the DA went on. “On the national level as well as the state. In fact, the whole family has always been dedicated to public service. They set a great example.”

  “I think so, too,” Ben said.

  “But like all public figures,” Oppenheimer continued, “they’ve also received their share of criticism—for political as well as other reasons. No matter how much good one does, you can’t expect everyone to love you.” He smiled. “One of the hazards of being rich.”

  Ben was about to say he wouldn’t mind taking the risk, but then he thought better of it.

  The door opened and the secretary brought in a tray with coffee and a plate of pastries. She set the tray down on a small table beside the two men.

  Oppenheimer looked at the pastries and then at the woman, who was round and gray-haired. “Helga, what are you trying to do to me? Make me fat?”

  “The Danish is for your guest,” Helga said with a straight face, then left the room.

  “That woman has been in charge of me ever since I’ve had this job,” the DA said. “Help yourself, Lieutenant.”

  Ben reached for a cup of coffee and then broke off a piece of pastry and ate it.

  Oppenheimer took the other cup and sipped the steaming black liquid. “Anyway, I understand there is already a lot of gossip being churned up by the media. Did you get any of that in the newscast you listened to?”

  Ben shook his head. “All I heard was a brief announcement that he died.”

 
“I see. Well, it seems they’re sniffing around like a pack of hyenas, trying to turn the situation into something sensational.”

  “I guess that’s to be expected.”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Of course, anything to do with the Cunninghams is news. I’m sure people all over the world are aware of the senator’s death by now … and have heard the rumors.”

  “What are the media saying?” Ben asked.

  “I gather they’re trying to suggest something not quite proper was going on. At the time, the senator was being interviewed by a writer who was doing an article on him.”

  “I did hear that much,” Ben said.

  The DA was watching him closely. “That’s what all the fuss is about. The writer was female. They were in his office, which is in the building next door to his home. The poor man had a heart attack and fell unconscious. By the time help arrived, he was gone.”

  “Is anyone claiming it wasn’t a heart attack?”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. The doctor who examined him has been the family physician for a long time. Name’s George Phelps. Heard of him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Quite well known in his own right. He’s head of cardiology at Manhattan Medical Center, which of course was founded by the Cunninghams. By the senator’s grandfather, actually. Dr. Phelps said it was a coronary and that he died almost immediately.”

  “Will Phelps do the postmortem?”

  “There won’t be one. The family feels having an autopsy performed would only add fuel to the gossip and conjecture. Dr. Phelps signed the death certificate and that was that—or should have been, anyway.”

  Ben drank some of his coffee. Something was going on here, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  Oppenheimer continued to watch the detective’s reactions. “Nevertheless, you can imagine what’s coming next. TV and the tabloids will turn out a lot of trash about how there was a relationship between the senator and this writer. A romance, or something like that.”