Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  “I will,” Peggy said. “And I’m going to keep on talking to her about the Cunninghams. That was what triggered the response, so maybe it’ll do the same thing again.”

  “Good idea,” Chenoweth said. “It could have just the effect we’re looking for. Although this time I’d suggest you try to steer clear of anything that might upset her. Meantime, I want to conduct some tests. There are ways we can measure response to mental stimuli, and that will enable us to determine the level of cognition. In other words, we’ll have a better idea of whether she actually grasps what’s being said to her. So go right on talking about the Cunninghams, but keep it upbeat.”

  Peggy nodded. “Fine, Doctor. I’ll do that.”

  23

  Tolliver spent the rest of the afternoon struggling with the mountain of paper that had been collected in the files on the Cunningham investigation. He began by reading background material on the family’s various enterprises, then moved on to the companies themselves. Most of the data concerned the brokerage operation, but there was also information concerning the holding company, Cunningham Mining, and the family’s real estate company, which was headed by the senator’s daughter, Ingrid.

  The reports on the brokerage, Cunningham Securities, were voluminous. They ranged from the history of the firm to accounts of its recent dealings, including detailed studies of trading activity.

  Yet the more Ben read, the more baffled he became. There were clear signs of insider trading, most of it centering around mergers and acquisitions that involved a number of companies over the past two years. In each instance, Clay Cunningham and his clients had made millions of dollars when the deals were done.

  But for all the investigators’ efforts, none of the attempts to fix blame had been fruitful. Not so much as a single indictment had been achieved, either by federal prosecutors acting on recommendations of the SEC or by Shackley’s group in the Manhattan district attorney’s office.

  Much of the investigation by both the feds and the New York prosecutors had focused on the lawyers representing the acquiring company and its prey, as well as on the management of Cunningham Securities. Despite court-ordered wiretaps and endless questioning of attorneys and stockbrokers, including Clay Cunningham himself, there was never enough evidence to take to a grand jury.

  But certain events hoisted flags in Ben’s head. In one situation, an associate in the law firm of Fowler, Patten, Callaway and Dugan had begun cooperating with investigators. This was after a deal in which Morris Frozen Foods had been swallowed by Grenzle, the giant conglomerate based in Geneva. Morris, listed on the New York Stock Exchange, had been trading at eleven before the action began. When its management folded eight weeks later, Grenzle paid forty-three dollars a share to take over the company.

  Cunningham and several of his clients had begun buying Morris stock exactly one month before the first indication of Grenzle’s intentions came to light. They made millions on the deal.

  The lawyer who’d been induced to talk to the investigators was a thirty-three-year-old named Jonas Darment, who’d joined his firm as a clerk fresh out of Columbia Law School and who had twice been passed over as a candidate for partner. Darment had failed to explain why he’d been making visits to Liechtenstein, a tiny country in the Alps where secrecy in banking laws was even tighter than those in Switzerland, or how he’d recently bought a Jaguar and a summer house in the Hamptons.

  Unfortunately, prosecutors had been unable to pursue the matter further. The lawyer met with an accident while driving home to Scarsdale on the Hutchinson River Parkway, and a Westchester emergency squad had had to use acetylene torches to cut what was left of him out of the Jag.

  In another instance, a broker employed by Cunningham Securities had drowned while vacationing in Maine. And a female assistant in the company had fallen from the platform of the Union Square IRT station one evening at rush hour, smack in front of the Lexington Avenue express.

  On the surface, Shackley’s team seemed to be pursuing the investigation vigorously. The stacks of manila folders on Tolliver’s desk contained several thousand pages of security-transaction records, transcripts of interviews, investigators’ reports, summary findings. But the bottom line was that for all the countless man-hours spent on the case, nothing positive had been accomplished. There’d been no arrests, no trials, no convictions.

  The closest the prosecutors had come to tying possibly illegal activities to Cunningham Securities involved questioning two employees of the brokerage. But even that had fizzled. Nothing was ever proven, and both men had been fired by the firm. Follow-up interrogations had gone nowhere.

  When Ben finished reading, he stood up and stretched. He still hadn’t gone through everything, but he’d seen enough to understand why Mulloy was so frustrated. He opened his door and called the detective back into his office.

  Mulloy sat in one of the visitor’s chairs and fixed Tolliver in a steady gaze. “Well? You see what I mean?”

  “I see it,” Ben said, “but I can’t explain it. Where was the DA while all this was going on?”

  “You remember what I was telling you, about how he’s a politician? Okay, that’s your answer. Whenever you got a high-profile case, one that’s getting a lot of attention in the media, that’s where you’ll see Oppenheimer. The thing with the judge who went nuts and tried to extort money from his girlfriend? The phony bank the Arabs were running? In one of those, he’s all over the tube, all over the front page of the newspapers. But with something like this, he assigns a senior prosecutor and a bunch of ADAs and stays out of it—until it gets hot, if it ever does. Once there’s a strong case and a chance for an indictment, then watch him lead the charge.”

  “Okay, but what’s with Shackley? You look at this stuff and you have to wonder.”

  “Exactly. I told you it’d make you curious.”

  “And what about the feds? Why haven’t they gotten anywhere?”

  “They claim they’ve got the same problem, lack of evidence. But also, Oppenheimer holds ’em at arm’s length. He’s a master at defending his territory, as you might know.”

  Ben sat at his desk and gestured at the stack of folders. “From what I can see, there’s plenty of evidence. What there’s a lack of is substantiation. How do you explain these accidents happening to people who could be key witnesses?”

  “I can’t. But now let me ask you something, okay?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Mulloy reached behind him and swung the door shut. “How come you’re messing around with this? It’s not what you were brought in here for, right?”

  “No, it’s not. But I’ve got a gut feeling all of it ties together.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “First of all, I don’t believe the senator died because he got old and his heart gave out—regardless of what he might have been doing with the Silk woman that night. And I don’t believe Silk jumped, either. With two suspicious deaths and holdings worth hundreds of millions of dollars, there’s got to be a connection someplace.”

  “You think both of them were homicides?”

  “I think it’s possible. Don’t you?”

  Mulloy looked at the ceiling and then back at Tolliver. “I don’t know whether they were or not. But there’s one thing I do know.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is, I’d give my soul to have this investigation go someplace. I’ve spent two years sitting on my ass—half cop, half clerk—and I’ve got nothing to show for it but that pile of crap in front of you. Personally, I think you’re nuts to stick your neck out by getting into it, but if you’re willing to do it, you got a friend for life.”

  Ben leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “I’m willing, Jack, if you’ll help me. What do you say?”

  Mulloy nodded. “I say let’s go, Lieutenant. Whatever you need, you got it.”

  “Good. Although I’d play it close if I were you. Brannigan’s already told me you were swamped and that if I needed
more help, he’d assign somebody else.”

  “Fuck him,” Mulloy said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “First, look for a pattern among the deals. See whether the same clients are benefiting each time. There may be some pooling of information going on. Meantime, I want to keep studying this material. There are questions I have about some of the figures. When I finish, we’ll talk.”

  “Okay, great. Any way I can help, just say the word.”

  “I will.”

  “You met Shackley yet?”

  “Yeah, this morning in Brannigan’s office. I plan to take a hard look at how he operates.”

  “Okay, but remember Mulloy’s law.”

  “About not getting shit on your shoes?”

  “That’s the one. Watch yourself. Shackley has friends in high places.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Mulloy stood up. He turned to go, then turned back. “Say, Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.” He left the office.

  Tolliver worked on, making notes on the figures involving the deals. He borrowed a calculator and ran the figures, checking and rechecking them. He also called several publicly traded brokerages for information on their operating costs so he’d have a basis for comparison. The deeper he went into the situation, the more puzzling it seemed.

  Suddenly, he realized it had gotten dark outside. At least his window could reveal that much. He glanced at his watch, then shoveled the papers and his notes back into the folders and locked the files in a drawer of his desk. He’d have to hurry to keep his date with the reporter.

  24

  Jack Mulloy was elated. He felt even better than he’d let on to Tolliver. Having the lieutenant come into the case was a real break, more than he’d ever hoped for. Now things would really begin to jump.

  Driving home over the Brooklyn Bridge, he tuned in WNEW and sang along with Linda Rondstadt on “Blue Bayou.” Beautiful, especially when she went up for that high note at the end. Mulloy didn’t try to stay with her then; he knew if he did, he’d pop his vocal cords.

  Hearing the record reminded him of the days when he was a young cop in a patrol car, full of piss and vinegar and proud to have joined the thin blue line that stood between the city and the forces of evil.

  But that was before he began to realize how many of his fellow officers were on the pad. Some guys were making more on bribes and payoffs in a month than they could on a policeman’s salary in a year.

  Mulloy’s partner in those days was a veteran named Mike Zabriskie who’d been busted down from sergeant twice and was now simply putting in his time until he retired. Mike was the guy responsible for Mulloy’s education.

  Zabriskie allowed that most cops were basically honest, and, in fact, some of them wouldn’t take anything even if it fell in their laps. Those were the Boy Scouts, Mike said, and in his opinion they were assholes. After them came the guys who took only nickel-and-dime stuff, freebies like a sandwich and a cup of coffee, or maybe a bag of fruit. They were suckers, too.

  But then there were cops who took because they were smart. So brazen that they made it a business, and they were the ones who cleaned up. They didn’t wait for the money to come their way; they went after it.

  From that point on, Mulloy learned of schemes that were highly profitable, and often ingenious. He’d personally known a number of cops who worked stolen goods. Some of it they fenced for burglars, some they appropriated from collars. And some of it they stole themselves, from stores, warehouses, private homes. The best organized among them was a ring that had its own storage lockers, right off Ditmars Boulevard in Queens. They’d take anything—TVs, jewelry, fur coats. If the merchandise had value, they grabbed it.

  Another group Mulloy knew of ran a car-theft operation in the Bronx. They had teenagers working for them who hot-wired cars and drove them into a chop shop not far from Yankee Stadium. The shop was owned by the brother-in-law of one of the cops. Once inside, the cars would be cut up and sold for parts. Or else the serial numbers would be changed, the bodies would be painted different colors, and then they’d be sold and shipped elsewhere, some of them as far as South America.

  Whores also paid. Not just the poor, broken-down street bitches or the kids who got off buses from Minneapolis and Milwaukee with their blond hair and their stupidity, easy meat for black pimps looking to build their stables. Cops took from them, too, but that wasn’t where the big money was. The real bread was in the houses and the escort services and the call-girl networks. That was the industry, and the people who ran it bribed police officers in droves.

  Gambling was also lucrative. So were loan-sharking and union racketeering. Every one of those activities needed police protection of one kind or another.

  And then there was drugs. Which made everything else seem paltry. There were cops who didn’t merely live well off narcotics but who became rich. Nick Feracci and Mike Halloran, to name just two. Or Joey Esposito, who now owned a big house in Miami and drove a Mercedes.

  In fact, police officers could rake in more money from drugs than from any other source—while they were using the shit themselves, living like kings, with all the broads they could handle.

  Not that some cops weren’t brought down from time to time. Dismissed from the force, even imprisoned. Which could be a death sentence. A former New York City police officer sent to Attica or Elmira had only a slim chance of making it to parole. More likely, the COs would find him in the shower with his throat cut, or with a shank buried in his skull.

  But that was something else you learned: Nothing in life was free.

  So by and large, Mulloy had resisted temptation. He took, but nothing big. Only what was due him, more or less, in return for what he was giving the civilians. A few bucks here and there, a turkey, a bottle of whiskey.

  The rationalization was easy. As a cop, you went out there and put your life on the line every day. For that, they paid you less than a garbage collector, less than a school janitor—while the civilians sneered at you and thought of you as their enemy.

  Meantime, his wife complained about every aspect of their lives, from their lousy little house in Flatbush to his miserable income, grousing that it wasn’t enough for one person to live on, let alone a married couple with a child. Why the hell didn’t he quit the cops? Ethel wanted to know. Get into something with a future, like her sister Jean’s husband, Harry Hunsacker. Harry had his own TV-repair business. They owned a nice house in Oceanside and Harry was getting them a maid.

  There was one other thing Mulloy would like to see Harry get: cancer.

  But for all his problems, things hadn’t gone too badly in Mulloy’s career as a police officer. He loved being a detective, loved wearing the sharp suits he bought at Rothman’s, loved carrying the gold shield. He’d won himself a number of citations and twice had killed people in the line of duty.

  The first time was when he and a partner had gone to a fifth-floor walk-up on 117th Street to question a woman about the whereabouts of her boyfriend, who was wanted for boosting dresses from shops on Madison Avenue.

  The guy had a clever MO, Mulloy thought. He wore neatly pressed blue coveralls that had the logo of an electrician on them and carried a large toolbox. He’d tell the proprietor the landlord had sent him, and when nobody was watching, he’d pack the toolbox with merchandise and walk out.

  The woman who came to the door was nursing a baby. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with skin the color of brown sugar and her hair done up in cornrows, really quite pretty. She told the cops she hadn’t seen her boyfriend in two weeks.

  They were about to leave when Mulloy’s partner, Ed Gillotti, noticed a metal box sitting on the floor next to a sofa. He pointed to it. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “On the floor there.”

  “Linoleum.”

  “I mean the box. What is it?”

  “I dunno.”


  “You got a toolbox in your apartment and you don’t know what it is?”

  She made no reply, but Mulloy noticed her breathing had picked up a little.

  “Mind if we have a look?” Gillotti said.

  She started to protest, but they pushed past her. The room was a mess, with bits of clothing and newspapers scattered about, a bottle of Ripple and two glasses standing on a table. There was an ashtray on the table as well, with a roach still smoldering in it.

  Gillotti went over to the box and squatted beside it. “This thing is locked. You got a key?”

  She shook her head defiantly. “No. Get the fuck outta here.”

  Mulloy glanced about. There was a tiny kitchen off this room and beside the entrance to it was a closed door. “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Nothin’. I told you motherfuckers to get out!”

  Gillotti straightened up. “Think I’ll just take a peek.”

  The girl’s chest was really moving now, heaving with each breath. Mulloy drew his snub-nosed Colt as Gillotti stepped over the box and reached toward the door.

  What happened next was a blur. The door burst open and a tall, skinny black man charged into the room, howling at the top of his lungs and swinging a machete. Gillotti went over backward, tripping on the toolbox and falling heavily to the floor. The blade missed his face by an inch.

  Mulloy didn’t think; he shot. Six times. The first round caught the guy in the chest and straightened him up, the second and third spun him around and knocked him down. The last three went in as he lay there, but they were unnecessary; he was already dead.

  Afterward, Mulloy was put on restricted duty while the case was perfunctorily presented to a grand jury and he was perfunctorily exonerated. Some schmuck of an ADA made noises about violation of the woman’s Fourth Amendment rights, but nothing ever came of it. Then in a ceremony at One Police Plaza, the commissioner pinned a decoration on Mulloy’s chest.