He walked into Malone’s office and plopped his six-foot frame down. “How goes it, Dan?”
“No problems. Want some coffee?”
“Make mine strong,” Zambrano said with a sly wink.
Malone got up and walked into the squad room. He returned with two half-filled coffee mugs. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and scowled when he saw that what had been a virgin bottle two days ago was now a third full. He poured a healthy shot into both mugs and slid one over to the inspector.
Zambrano slumped in his seat and held the mug under his nose, sniffing appreciatively. “I was surprised to catch you in. According to your chart, today is your RDO,” Zambrano said, his brown eyes moving to meet the lieutenant’s.
“Something came up that required my attention. I figured I’d hang around and get rid of some of this paper.”
Zambrano frowned mild disapproval. “Don’t make the mistake of making the Job your wife. If you do, some day you’re going to wake up and discover that you married a whore. Get married, have a family.”
“I was married, remember. It sucks.”
“Bullshit! They don’t all end up on the rocks.”
“In this job most of them do.”
Resigned, Zambrano sighed and asked, “How many men you got assigned?”
“On paper, twenty-four. I have two men on a steal to the Major Case Squad, one assigned to the borough president’s office and one on extended sick, heart attack. That leaves me with twenty men to cover the chart.”
Zambrano hesitated. “Dan … the mayor wants to borrow one of your guys for a week or so. He has a friend he wants driven around town.”
“Inspector! We were stuck the last time driving his girlfriend. Why the hell doesn’t he use one of the detectives assigned to guard him?”
“First off, he likes to bounce in Little Italy. He has a lot of friends there. And your squad is the closest. Second, if one of the detectives assigned to Gracie Mansion was spotted in Bloomingdale’s carrying packages for some lady, the entire world would know that Handsome Harry has a new girlfriend, that’s why. The word is he’s stuck on this one. Might even make her a commissioner,” Zambrano said.
“Cozy. His wife can swear her in.”
Zambrano grinned. He drained his mug, then slid it across the desk. “Skip the coffee this time.”
Malone poured a respectable shot and handed the mug back.
Zambrano sat for a moment studying the dark, shimmering liquid and then looked up. “Do you know Inspector Bowen?”
“The one in Community Relations?”
“That’s the one. He might be stopping by to examine your community-relations parameters.”
“My what?”
“It’s the latest brainchild of the paper assholes at headquarters. They’ve convinced the PC that every unit in the department, including precinct detective squads, should become involved in community relations. You’re supposed to get in touch with the various community groups operating within the precinct and find out what their needs are and work out a program for your detectives to respond to those needs. It’s called Operation Participation. Bowen’s been designated to act as liaison between the DCCR and the Detective Division.”
“And what do I put on paper? My detectives try to make every halfway decent-looking female complainant who walks into the squad.”
“Just throw the usual bullshit on a forty-nine and have it ready to show Bowen when he pops in.”
“Look at that basket of paper on my desk. And they’re adding more?”
Zambrano shrugged. “I’ll drop you an outline of what they’re looking for in the department mail. All you’ll have to do is embellish it.” Zambrano gulped his drink. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, getting up. He started to leave, then turned to face the lieutenant. “By the way, the man with the red yarmulka called the PC to say thanks.”
2
WEDNESDAY, June 10
At 7:40 A.M. the following morning Sgt. George Brady stepped behind the Fifth Precinct’s massive desk and flipped the pages of the sergeants’ clipboard. He glanced down at the desk lieutenant who was making his beginning-of-tour blotter entries and then looked up at the clock. Brady took the cigar from his mouth and laid it in the ashtray. It was time to turnout the Second Platoon.
Looking down at the desk lieutenant, Brady asked, “Got anything for the boys, Lou?”
The lieutenant looked up. “Tell ’em not to bring in any Puerto Rican mysteries. I’m not in the mood for that bullshit today. And George, tell sector Charlie I want some roast pork lo mein for lunch.”
“You got it, Lou.”
Brady tucked the clipboard under his arm and stepped out from behind the desk.
“All right, fall in,” Brady shouted, walking into the sitting room.
The members of the Second Platoon reluctantly abandoned their coffee and cigarettes and shambled into two uneven ranks.
Brady faced the platoon. “Attention to roll call.”
He called the roll, assigning each police officer to his post, sector, calling off their meal hour; he read off post conditions. “Summonses are down for the month. We need movers. Pay attention to your Accident Prone Locations. Sector Adam, watch out for payroll robberies; Sector David, tag the double parkers around the court. The judges are complaining that they can’t get into their assigned spaces. The Seventh Squad is looking for a ’seventy-nine green Olds in connection with a homicide. The right front fender is smashed in. The car has Jersey plates and a broken vent window on the driver’s side. If found, safeguard for prints. Sector Charlie, the lieutenant wants roast pork lo mein for lunch. You might as well bring him a flute too—he’ll be a little parched by then.” He was referring to a soda bottle filled with whiskey. “You all understand your assignments?”
Two files of policemen stood in indifferent silence, their eyes staring blankly ahead.
“Okay. Open ranks for inspection,” Brady growled.
Sgt. George Brady had forty years in the Job. Next year he’d have to throw in his papers. Just as well. It was getting harder and harder for Brady to accept the new breed of cops. He missed the spit and polish of the old days. As he moved down the first file, he glanced with dismay at the short, dumpy female officers with asses as broad as billboards, their flabby waists hanging over their gun belts. The blacks with their damn afros, uniform caps perched on top of a beehive of kinky black hair. Puerto Ricans with their goddamn peach fur on their goddamn wheat-colored chins and their goddamn greasy sideburns. Even the Irish cops had succumbed to the age of permissiveness with their long hair lacquered down with hair spray and their goddamn handlebar mustaches. The locker room smelled like a goddamn French whorehouse. There was only one white cop in the entire precinct with close-cropped hair, spit-shined shoes, tailored uniform that hugged the body, and he was a goddamn fag. Yeah. It was time for George Brady to get out.
The sergeant stopped in front of a female officer who had the contours of a fire hydrant.
“Where’s your flashlight?”
“In my locker, Sarge,” she replied sheepishly.
“In your locker? And what will you do if you have to chase a holdup man into a dark basement? Call time out and run back to your locker? Go upstairs and get your flashlight!”
Brady walked in front of the platoon. “Take your posts.”
Blue-and-white radio cars were parked all along Elizabeth Street. Police officers slumped in their cars, waiting. Pairs of policemen loitered near the precinct steps, talking over the night’s activities. When the first police officer emerged from the precinct, the cops of the late tour abandoned their radio cars and hurried toward the stationhouse.
Police Off. Joe Velch and his partner, Carmine Rossi, headed for their radio car. Velch moved around to the driver’s side. They jabbed their nightsticks between the rear seat, tossed their memo books into the back, dropped their flashlights onto the front seat, and threw their summons pouches onto
the dashboard. Velch started to gather up the early-bird edition of the Daily News that was scattered over the seat. Rossi stretched his arm under the front seat and scooped out the beer containers and brown bags that had been squirreled away during the late tour.
Velch looked up at the gas gauge. “Ya suppose to gas up on the late tour, you donkey cocksucker!” he shouted after his hastily departing relief.
They drove over to the Sixth Precinct to get gas and then drove to Moshe’s on the corner of Canal and Baxter where two containers of regular, one extra sweet, and two bagels with cream cheese were waiting in a bag next to the cash register. The radio car slid to a stop in front of the luncheonette. Velch raised himself out of the car and ambled into the crowded store.
Moshe was busy behind the counter. The store owner saw the policeman enter and started to work his way down the counter to the cash register.
“So how goes it today, Joe? Catch any criminals?” Moshe asked.
“Not yet, Moshe,” Velch said, struggling to pull out his wallet.
Velch took a dollar bill out and placed it in Moshe’s palm. The store owner handed the policeman the bag, rang up the sale, and gave Velch his four quarters change.
They parked the radio car under the Brooklyn Bridge. Rossi opened the glove compartment and rested the bag on top of the door. He took out a container and a bagel and passed them to his partner. They pried off the tops of the containers and laid them on the dashboard; cops never throw away the tops of containers. They might have to leave fast.
The view was relaxing—a tugboat was shepherding two garbage scows, its stubby bow pushing aside greenish water. The river’s day was just starting when a scratchy mutter on the radio broke the silence.
“Five Boy, K.”
“Aw shit!” Rossi said, snatching up the radio.
“Five Boy, K,” he answered.
“Five Boy, respond to Chatham Towers, One-seven-zero Park Row. See complainant regarding a foul odor.”
“Five Boy, ten-four.” Rossi put the mike back into its cradle and turned to his partner. “We’ll finish our coffee and then take a slow ride over. It’s probably nothing.”
The Chatham Towers, a twenty-four-story housing complex of naked concrete blocks and jutting terraces, stood in Lower Manhattan in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge and Columbus Park. Crescent-shaped driveways angled upward to the building. Isolated tiny playgrounds with modular cubes instead of seesaws made the apartment-house setting seem somewhat bizarre in the surrounding area of old buildings.
Tenants were milling in front of the entrance as the radio car rounded the driveway. The policemen got out and walked down the steps leading into the complex. A porter was waiting for them in the vestibule. “The third floor, officers.”
When the elevator was between the second and third floor they got their first whiff of the familiar, awful odor. Velch looked at his partner. “It’s ripe.”
The elevator stopped on three and they stepped out. Velch made a sudden grab for his handkerchief. The coffee, bagel, and cream cheese exploded from his mouth, splattering his uniform and spewing across the hall. The stench was suffocating. They gagged and their mouths filled with saliva. With every gasp they fought not to swallow their tongues.
“You okay?” Rossi said, pressing his handkerchief over his mouth and nose.
“I’m all right,” he choked. “My uniform is shot to hell.”
“Chrissake … this is one ripe son-of-a-bitch,” Rossi said. They reluctantly paused in front of each door in the hall until they got to Apartment 3c.
“Get some ammonia!” Rossi gagged, before he, too, vomited.
Joe Velch ran back along the corridor, banging on doors.
“Police! Open up. We need ammonia.”
A door in the middle of the floor finally cracked open and a hand appeared holding a gray plastic bottle.
Velch grabbed the bottle. The door slammed. He ran to Apartment 3c and started to pour ammonia in front of the door. “Carmine, you stay here. I’ll call the sergeant and the Squad,” Velch said, shaking out the last drippings.
“Tell ’em to bring some crystals with them. We’re going to need them!” Rossi shouted after his partner.
Gus Heinemann stuck his massive head in the door of the lieutenant’s office. “Lou, they think they’ve got a DOA in the Chatham Towers. They’re calling for the Squad.”
“They think?” Malone said.
“They haven’t entered the apartment. They’re waiting for us to get there,” Heinemann said.
“Who’s catching?” Malone asked.
“Pat.”
“Both of you run over and have a look. If it’s a mystery get on the horn and call me. If it’s just a grounder, clean it up and forget it.”
When the detectives arrived they found Sergeant Brady standing among a cluster of anxious tenants. When Brady saw the detectives getting out of their car, he walked away from the people and went to meet them.
“Whaddaya got, Sarge?” O’Shaughnessy asked, walking up to Brady.
Brady answered, “We were waiting for you guys to get here. We poured some DB 45 crystals around the outside of the door. It was pretty bad up there.”
“Anything on who lives there?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
“A female, white, by the name of Sara Eisinger. She’s about thirty-four or five and lives alone. We questioned some of the neighbors, but none of them know anything about her. According to the building’s management, she’s lived here for five years,” Brady answered.
“The first thing we’ve got to do is find out que pasa inside of that apartment,” Heinemann said.
An Emergency Service van careened around the driveway, squealing to a stop behind the unmarked detective car.
“Figured we might need gas masks if the crystals don’t work,” the sergeant said, looking at the van.
Heinemann looked at his partner. “Think we should call the boss?”
“Naw. All we have so far is a case of bad breath. Let’s see what we find,” O’Shaughnessy said.
A group of detectives and uniformed officers hovered in the hallway, waiting for the disinfecting crystals to work and turn the stink into a bearable smell faintly like violets.
Heinemann turned to the sergeant. “Sarge, will you start a log? If we got a mystery we’ll want a record of everyone on the scene.”
“You got it,” Brady answered.
The detectives put on gas masks. O’Shaughnessy took the bottle of crystals from the sergeant.
“Here goes,” said Heinemann, lifting up his right foot and smashing it into the door, splintering it open.
An unspeakable odor gushed out; all the cops started to gag and choke. Two policemen ran retching down the hallway, while O’Shaughnessy stood in the doorway scattering crystals inside the apartment. There was a large kitchen to the right of the entrance. A black wrought-iron table was on its side, its glass top shattered. The cabinets were open, their contents strewn over the floor. O’Shaughnessy stepped inside and turned to the uniformed cops. “Wait out here.”
The detectives entered; O’Shaughnessy spread around more of the crystals. A half-open convertible couch was lying on its side, the cushions slashed and shredded. Tables and lamps were broken. There was no sign of a body. “Nothing,” Heinemann said, moving through the living room. “It’s got to be someplace.”
The masks muffled their voices, giving them a hollow resonance.
Heinemann moved to the window and turned on the air conditioner. He glanced down at the street. His eyes wandered to the duplex pagoda roof of the Manhattan Savings Bank on the corner of Chatham Square and Catherine Street. He liked the way the eaves curled under. A queue of tourist buses were starting to unload their passengers. It was a beautiful day to be looking for death.
The living room led into a small foyer. There were two closets on either side. The floor was littered with linens. A closed door at one end apparently led to the bathroom. Pat looked at Gus. “It’s gotta be in ther
e,” Pat said, moving to open the door. “Dear Mother of God!”
The bathroom was done in blue. Ceramic tiles covered the floor, blue fluffy scatter rugs on top. The tub was filled to its brim with a dark red liquid. Lying face down was the swollen, nude body of a woman. Her long blond hair fanned out on the surface of the loathsome, hardened mixture of blood and other things. Writhing maggots covered the back of the head, sodden wormlike creatures feasting on human decay. Her hands were handcuffed behind her body, intertwined fingers pointing helplessly upward.
“I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this,” O’Shaughnessy said, his mouth gaping. “Better call the boss and tell him to get his ass here forthwith. We got a homicide on our hands.”
They were waiting outside in the hall when the lieutenant and the rest of the squad arrived. Walking up to the gathering, Malone asked, “Who’s been inside?”
Heinemann answered, “Only Pat and me.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Malone said. “I don’t want anyone inside unless they’ve got a specific reason for being there. Has Forensic been notified?”
“They’re on the way,” O’Shaughnessy answered.
Malone turned to Sergeant Brady. “Sarge, you take care of it out here. If any of the chiefs from headquarters come by, keep them the hell out of the crime scene. I don’t want them screwing things up. The last one we had, some chief from Planning held up the murder weapon for the newspaper boys. He got his picture in the centerfold and the perp walked.”
Brady asked, “And if some muck-a-muck insists?”
“You call me—I’ll handle it,” Malone said.
“Ten-four,” Brady replied.
“Let’s take a look,” Malone said, moving to the doorway.
Pat O’Shaughnessy was at the lieutenant’s side, a steno pad ready in his hands.
The lieutenant stared into the apartment. “What a shambles.”
“Looks like somebody put up a helluva fight,” O’Shaughnessy said.
“Or someone was searching for something,” Malone said.
One Police Plaza Page 2