“There’s a list you have to sign, Sergeant, for checking out the files. I have to bring it back to the clerk.”
Marty Keane added his signature to the list of those who had consulted the files in the past.
And then: “Hey, this is no goddamn haystack,” he said. “Hell, what are we talking about? These files here, every single one of them checked out only a few months ago. First time in almost eight years. And by John James Reilly. Special agent, FBI. Krish, get Flo on the horn.”
7 P.M.
Brooklyn district attorney’s office.
“Great break,” Flo said to Cecil King. “We’re headed in the right direction, same as John James Reilly.”
“What does the Bureau say?”
“Zip. Usual excuse, national security.”
“Flo—” Cecil King paused to blow his nose. A winter cold thickened his speech. “They could beat us to death with national security. And I don’t mean only the Bureau, they got their job to do for sure. But they got a commander in chief—” Sneeze, blow, honk. “They do as they’re told. The commander’s troops could make life even more miserable for us.”
…commander’s troops…miserable for us…Flo needed no translation here. Troops: the mayor, his people, and their White House allies.
And us? In particular, the mayor’s opponent and soon-to-be senatorial candidate, Kings County District Attorney Cecil King. He was the mayor’s number one competitor.
As soon as word leaked out—as it almost surely would—that one of the seven dead had been nosing around in the dusty files of an eight-year-old murder case solved years ago and long since closed, and the dead nosybody was an FBI special agent assigned to watch the comings and goings of the People’s Republic of China’s diplomatically immune ambassador, then national security came straight back into play.
Big-time.
Never mind that no political group, foreign or domestic, had claimed any remotely credible credit for the F train slaughter.
But the district attorney wasn’t the only one playing his own best friend here, on the alert for Number One’s self-interest. That dependable source of battalions, of entire regiments, of self-concerned troops—the New York underworld—was flashing category red alert ever since the first morning’s news of the F train massacre. Inactivity was a non-revenue-producing posture, and lying low had become the position of forced choice, as long as the police were combing the streets, armed with lists of names, names linked to such free market activities like dope dealing, extortion, people smuggling, prostitution, human trafficking, document forgery, financial fraud, loan sharking—all these were major cash-producing enterprises—and you do have to have enterprise to succeed in New York. Criminals of every variety were now feeling a sharp pinch in their wallets.
In only a few days after the F train massacre, the squeeze was on and felt even outside the Chinatowns and the underworld. Never mind how low the Federal Reserve set the prime rate, cash was growing tight almost overnight in New York wherever questionable big money changed hands. Banks were not pleased. Condo developers were starting to cry in their fifty-dollar-a-glass wine, the market was slowing, some downtown restaurants were even considering Chapter 11, art galleries were closing for vacation in midwinter, Sotheby’s was canceling auctions—it was like the death of vaudeville all over again. There was hardly a New York investment banker, art dealer, or real estate broker who wasn’t praying the mass killer or killers would soon be brought to justice, so the police could once more devote their energies to antiwar and antiabortion and anti–estate tax demonstrators, and ticket all those death-defying jaywalkers and bike messengers, and let the spirit of free enterprise once again breathe its life-giving force back into the greatest city on God’s good earth.
One result of all these soul-searing desires was that for the first time in recent NYPD memory, common cause was made between the police and some of the demimonde—not to mention the haut monde—the dark side volunteering its anonymous two cents’ worth, flooding the police and the district attorney’s office with more worthless tips than they knew what to do with or wanted to be seen holding.
“Tell me, Flo,” said Cecil King, pausing to sneeze and squeezing the bridge of his nose.
“You’ve got a real beaut of a cold there,” Flo said.
“Grandmother of all colds. Can’t seem to shake it. Now what’s this on Lee Ho Fook and Reilly?”
Flo recounted the details of the extensive police search for criminal world connections to Lee Ho Fook. The district attorney asked several questions, mostly about Reilly’s notes and her opinion of the decoded results.
“Flo, there’s nobody in our profession I respect more than you. But you may be banging your head against a wall, on the other side of which you might find nothing but a dead-end alley.”
“Or maybe there could be something interesting.” She tried to hide a tinge of resentment at this demeaning of her work.
“Sure, Flo, it’s interesting Reilly was sneaking around Chinatown, sniffing around archives, not telling his colleagues, or so we’d like to think. But it’s just possible, indeed probable, Lee Ho Fook was long since vanished among one billion three hundred million people back in his home country.” The DA sneezed, honked. “He executed a man in our country. Over here, he was called a ‘leader of his people.’ Over there, who knows, maybe he became the same.” Cecil King smiled, blew his nose. “Street leaders come and go, like street fashions. There’s plenty of money in China now, maybe even more than in this country. Why should he bother coming back here if he can stay home and get even richer?”
“Reilly was interested in him. There had to be a damn good reason Reilly checked out those old interview transcripts.” Flo couldn’t conceal the defiance in her tone, and the authority in her confidence pleased her.
“The Bureau was in a tough spot, Flo. Back then and now again. China. You kidding? We’ll be allowed enough evidence maybe to swat a fly, if we’re lucky. National security. We got secret courts now, criminal and civil, all because of national security. All it takes is the commander in chief’s say-so. It’s a whole new ball game we’re playing.”
Cecil King persisted in what Flo viewed as defeatism, and she felt a hot wave of shame hit her as if she were fresh out of law school and just flunked her first shot at the bar exams. Irrationally perhaps—instead of overlooking these new realities, for being bravely blind to new truths—she blamed the late John James Reilly. She was angry at him for going off half-cocked and not leaving behind a solid solution. Depressed that his meandering trails and his schoolboy games with amateur codes were maybe no better than her and her colleagues’ own conjectures. She’d trusted John James Reilly, professional special agent, to know what the hell he was doing, and maybe she was miserable now because she saw her trust seesawing. When you got right down to it, the ingredients produced such a haphazard concoction, the weird brew of John James Reilly and Lee Ho Fook and the F train corpses. No matter, and in spite of the district attorney’s concern for larger, newer realities, she felt certain the basic faith she had in herself and her colleagues would be justified.
“Flo, Reilly might have disqualified himself making a play for that woman,” said the DA. “If that’s what he was up to. It’s possible, maybe probable. Sure, he could have been fighting on the side of truth, law, justice, patriotism, and all the time maybe he has sex on his mind, too. And you know what the Bureau thinks about sex, Flo, going right the way back to J. Edgar and his boyfriends and JFK’s bimbos—up or down, take your pick, exhibit A or exhibit Z, Monica’s blue dress and the great stain of shame. Sex and the Bureau, it’s a great big no-no. Nobody goes there, nobody with any brains. It’s dynamite, it can blow up in your face.”
8:10 P.M.
Telepathy had its faithful adherents, and although Flo Ott never considered herself a congregant in the church of the credulous, she was almost tempted to sign up when she returned to her office and found a message on her voicemail from counselor-at-law Robert
J. Keating, Esq.
“Lieutenant, my client and I would like to talk to you, about some information she has that may help your investigation of that incident…the one on the F train. We can meet at any time convenient for you, if your office could please arrange a conference at the women’s New York detention facility with Ms. Ella Mae Bontemps. Your discretion is appreciated. Thank you very much, Lieutenant Ott.”
As far as sex, crime, and bimbos were concerned, Golden Bobby’s latest surprise client qualified as a world-class contender. His message certainly piqued Flo’s interest, sent it soaring to lava-hot intensity, and her spirits, turning soggy after Cecil King’s dampener, came alive again, vital with anticipation.
A meeting with a willing Ella Mae Bontemps. Informer? Plea dealer? Desperate deceiver? Flo arranged it for first thing the next morning. Ella Mae had to be scraping together all her savings to retain Keating.
Tuesday
7:40 A.M.
The interview room at the New York detention facility for women smelled of fear and sweat-sour prison clothes.
Lieutenant Detective Flo Ott sat at a table facing Ella Mae Bontemps and her attorney, the golden one, Bobby Keating. No blazing bursts of jovial sunshine from Bobby this morning. The gold teeth as good as Fort Knox bullion were on limited display.
And Ella Mae Bontemps’s fashion tower of power had vanished, in her place a sad brokeback of a rag doll in orange prison clothes, slumped in her chair, lusterless hair slicked to narrow skull, her face clenched like a fist, shrunken features contorted, contrite, plangent. In an odd way, Ella Mae’s head appeared too big for her body, even as her excess weight, distributed mainly to bosom and behind and without the usual undergarment support, flopped around free inside her roomy new uniform. Ella Mae’s long legs were curled back under her chair, and her now spaniel-like eyes, Ritalin deprived, begged for mercy.
Golden Bobby said, “With my advice and encouragement, my client has drafted—in total candor and entirely in her own words—a cooperative statement, such as we believe must be considered now with the utmost discretion and gravity. She’s done this at the risk of her life, Lieutenant. And she’s done it for you and for the district attorney. So I respectfully request that this be treated with sensitivity and tact.”
Seven corpses, all murder victims. As sensitive as it gets.
“Lieutenant, I’ll be making formal application to the district attorney for witness protection and for immunity from prosecution in exchange for my client’s invaluable cooperation. And I realize this will require, at least for practical purposes, your concurrence, of course. That’s why I called you first, Lieutenant Ott.”
“Sorry, counselor, no promises at this point. Certainly not from me. You realize I can’t.”
“I know, and please believe me we really appreciate your coming here. May I begin reading, Lieutenant?”
Flo nodded and sat back in her chair.
Ella Mae Bontemps folded her hands and stared at the floor.
Her attorney cleared his throat. His voice was low, his tones earnest, factual, unforced.
Written on a single legal-size sheet of paper, Ella Mae’s statement rolled out.
I was aware of, but I did not participate in nor did I ever conspire in, the criminal activities conducted on and through the premises of Heights Antiques, Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn, where I was employed as store manager, merchandise buyer, and salesperson. To the best of my knowledge and recollection, these illicit activities were money laundering, fencing stolen goods and stock certificates, and above all, narcotics distribution. The late Sidney R. Davidov was a principal in all these activities. He was also his partners’ main connection to the link in the distribution chain for the stolen goods and securities—and above all for the narcotics trade—that was manned by Chinese immigrants, people controlled by undocumented individuals that Sidney R. Davidov and his partners made deals with. Sidney R. Davidov didn’t trust the Chinese, as even he said they were too shifty, but he thought they were good at their work, and it was either deal with them or have them as enemies. I often heard him arguing on his cellphone with a man named Xi. I believe Xi was his main Chinese contact. Sidney R. Davidov was afraid of Xi. He said Xi had killed before and would kill again. This much I can swear to under oath. The rest of my statement here is mainly sincere guesswork. I think Xi may have had something to do with killing Sidney R. Davidov, who was scared, as he said the Chinese were threatening him and they wanted a bigger piece of the business. But I thought maybe Sid was just popping too many pills again. And now it looks like Sid was maybe right all along. I swear this is everything I know about all those crimes, so help me God. I will answer any questions you have to the best of my ability and recollection and in the presence of my attorney, Robert J. Keating. Thank you.
The statement was unsigned, unattributed, purposely deniable.
And Flo suspected it would remain so, the statement at this point only a calculated feeler for an arrangement, until the proposed plea bargaining deal received the nod from District Attorney Cecil King.
“Thank you both,” Flo said, “I realize this took great courage, Ms. Bontemps, and I appreciate it, I really do. But there’s a lot that has to be cleared up.”
Golden Bobby shrugged. “Sure, we understand.”
“May I?” Ella Mae Bontemps’s piney-woods voice was subdued, hesitant, deferential, no hog calling in the women’s detention facility. An attitude of gratified compliance took over. “You see, Mr. Keating called, saying he wanted to represent me, and all the women here say he’s the best there is. Moreover, I don’t know anybody else. I never needed no lawyer before, except when I got divorced. And that was in Georgia, when I was just a kid, so that don’t count. I hope you believe me now, Lieutenant.”
“It won’t be my decision. It’s entirely up to the district attorney. And the U.S. attorney. You’ve got federal charges in this, too. You’re talking about a complex criminal enterprise. And here you’re saying you know a good deal about it. For a long time. You were an accomplice.”
Golden Bobby Keating shifted his great weight, restlessly, anxiously, alert for opportunity. “Lieutenant, you check it all out. Every bit. Here, this is for you.”
He handed Flo a photocopy of Ella Mae Bontemps’s handwritten, unsigned statement. “Check out everything you want. And call me anytime you like. We want to help you.”
“As long as you understand, we can’t do anything about the federal charges. That’s the Bureau. And the U.S. attorney.”
“Of course. And we want to build a record of cooperation for my client, a platform for trust. Starting with the Brooklyn district attorney. This F train case is as big as it gets for you, wouldn’t you say?”
And getting bigger by the minute.
Ella Mae sniffled. “Lieutenant, I sure hope you understand one thing about me here, like it hasn’t always been easy, my life. You see I’ve never had much choice. I come up the hard way. No momma, for starters. Of course, I had one, I just never knew her. She cleared out only hours after having me. And my daddy, I didn’t know him none too good either. So I do hope you understand, Lieutenant, I just want to cooperate with you all I can.”
Ella Mae Bontemps was a skilled, if limited, character witness, hobbled to her own true self in the range of characters she could play with any conviction, a woman who seemed to grow more immature with each passing hour. Her sad performance now made Flo more determined than ever to get past the stage show and down to reality with Ella Mae.
8:10 A.M.
As soon as Flo was outside the women’s detention facility, she called Frank Murphy.
“Get back on the streets. Get all the manpower you can to every Chinese neighborhood in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens. Get the photo of Reilly, Priester, and the waiter. Cut the couple and get an ID on the waiter. Maybe a guy called Xi.”
It seemed almost pointless, even a little funny to Frank, canvassing every Chinese bar and restaurant.
But he and his people spread th
emselves across the city, hour after hour, pounding out the investigation from bar to bar, restaurant to restaurant, Frank wistfully studying menus, regretting he was on duty and unable to eat his way around town, during what he called “my exploratious marching. But dogged does it.” Frank didn’t believe in flash. Grabbing a perp in a blaze of glorious gunfire was strictly for absurd television shows and unreal movies. In his heart he was not a man, but a wolf of the steppes…forget that shit, in Frank’s opinion, there were no wolves, no geniuses in NYPD homicide, only shrewd cops behind the shield, nose to the grindstone, diligence and determination key to nailing killers who usually slipped up somewhere along the line. A stray fact, a loose tongue, a partner betrayed and aggrieved, more often than not such seemingly small events revealed the truth that condemned.
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