One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  Malone went first. He stepped into a narrow passageway of corrugated sheet metal. There were no windows. Ventilation fans hummed overhead. At three-meter intervals push-bar doors led off the corridor. Centered in each door was a combination box lock with twelve numbered buttons.

  David Ancorie stopped before a door numbered 6 and punched in the combination. The door clicked open and the detectives were led through it into another narrow hallway with cinderblock walls. Ancorie walked rapidly ahead of them. At the end of the passage he opened a heavy push-bar door and held it as they walked past.

  Ancorie introduced Yachov Anderman. His desk was cluttered with shipping invoices and ICC regulations. He was portly and appeared to be in his late fifties. He had hooded eyes that were cold, weary, and decidedly unwelcoming. His hair was thin on top and thick around the sides with many errant strands looping the ears. An occasional twitch squeezed the right side of his face, and he exuded the strong smell of tobacco and cheap aftershave. He was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt that was spread wide at the collar exposing the matted graying hair on his chest. His blue trousers were strikingly fashionable, cut in a flashy Italian style, and seemed out of key with the rumpled rest of Anderman. He looked balefully at the intruders. “Spare me that nonsense about being from the Department of Labor. You’re policemen. So state your business with me and leave,” he said harshly.

  “What makes you so sure that we’re policemen?” Malone said.

  “I have lived in many countries during my lifetime. And the one thing that I have discovered is that you and your kind are the same all over the world.” Anderman strummed the tip of his nose. “I can smell you.”

  Malone controlled his rage. He produced his credentials and passed them across the desk to Anderman.

  The man behind the desk looked at them and tossed them back to Malone. “So? I’m impressed. Why are you here?”

  “Listen, pal! Don’t you come on to me with that attitude of yours. We’re here on official police business. If you don’t want to cooperate here, I’ll drag your fat little ass down to the stationhouse and effect an attitudinal change on it. Understand, pal!” Malone said.

  David Ancorie made a move toward Malone. Starling Johnson stepped forward, barring Ancorie’s path. “Be cool, man, be real cool.”

  Anderman raised his hand, motioning Ancorie back. He picked up a package of Gauloises, took one out, and lit it. He started to cough. Then he raised his shoulders and smiled. “It has been a difficult week. We all have them, yes. What is it I can do for you?” he asked, dragging on the cigarette.

  “We’re investigating the murder of Sara Eisinger. She used to work for you,” Malone said.

  “Yes, I read about her death. But why are you being so devious?”

  Malone said, “Because many people are reluctant to speak to policemen. But everyone has time to talk with representatives of Uncle Sam.”

  “I see,” Anderman said, flicking ash into his overflowing ashtray. “I find it difficult to understand why anyone would want to kill Sara. She was such a nice girl.” Anderman told him that Eisinger had worked for him for four years. “One day she pranced into the office and announced that she was quitting.”

  “Did she tell you why she was leaving?”

  “Sara had become afflicted by the great American way of life. She told me that she wanted to find herself. Roam the beaches with her tits hanging out, toe the sand, and listen to the cosmic force of the waves breaking over the beach. The usual dribble of the frustrated.”

  “Why was she frustrated?”

  “How should I know?” Anderman said.

  “What was her job with you?” Malone asked.

  “She maintained running inventories and arranged our shipping schedules. And she was quite good at it,” Anderman said, crushing out his cigarette.

  “Inventories of what?”

  “High-precision industrial machinery.”

  “I notice that your loading bays are locked. And I don’t see any activity in or around the plant. Would you mind telling me why?”

  Anderman brought his left elbow up and rested the heel of his hand under his chin, his fingers rubbing the lips, as he decided whether he was going to answer the policeman’s question.

  “My company is self-insured,” Anderman said, deciding it was better to cooperate than fight, at least for now. “I refuse to pay the outrageous premiums that the insurance companies charge. By providing our own security and carefully selecting my own people I am able to eliminate losses due to theft. As a result, our rates are cheaper than our competitors. Those loading bays are open only when trucks are entering or leaving.”

  “You don’t employ union teamsters?” Malone said, surprised.

  Anderman was suddenly annoyed. “I employ whomever I want. Gangsters are not going to run my business.” Anderman grinned. “Of course every now and then it becomes necessary to grease a few palms.… I employ Israeli students who are studying in this country and American students who come recommended by friends. I will hire no one who is not vouched for.”

  Malone asked Anderman if he ever heard from Eisinger after she left.

  Anderman made a sour face. He told Malone that at first there were a few telephone calls, then nothing.

  Malone craned his neck and looked at David Ancorie, who was lolling by the door with his arms folded across his chest. “Do you know Aldridge Braxton?” Malone asked, looking back at Anderman.

  “No, I have never heard that name before. Have you, Ancorie?”

  Ancorie pushed away from the door and moved across the room, glancing at Johnson. He stood next to Anderman. “No, the name means nothing to me,” Ancorie said. “Why?”

  “Because Hillel Henkoff and Isaac Arazi, both of whom work for you, were following Mr. Braxton last night in a truck that was registered to this company. Harassment is against the law,” Malone said.

  “Were you responsible for the beating that was inflicted on Arazi?” Anderman was stern. He had removed another Gauloise and was tapping it end over end, staring at Malone through narrowed eyes.

  “Beating? I know nothing of any beating,” Malone said, turning to Johnson. “Did you hear of any beatings?”

  Starling Johnson shook his head.

  “Humph. Of course you didn’t. Policemen never know of such things,” Anderman said. Sunlight poured through the meshed window high on the wall, patterning the cramped office in uneven strips of light.

  “Why were they following Braxton and his two friends?” asked Malone.

  “You’ll have to ask them that,” Anderman said.

  “Where are they? I have to interview them,” Malone said.

  “No problem,” Anderman said. “I had to send them to Chicago to pick up some merchandise. As soon as they return I’ll have them get in touch with you.”

  “What can you tell me about them?” Malone asked.

  “I can tell you that they’re both a pain in the ass,” Anderman said. “They are our JDL zealots who try to out-Zionist the Zionists. They’re both students who spend most of their time mouthing JDL bullshit instead of working. I’ve been thinking of getting rid of them. I’m in this business to make money, not fight causes. Those two think that by breaking some Arab’s balls they’re going to be big heroes on campus. Peer-group bullshit. But they’re harmless. Together they couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag.”

  “When do you expect Henkoff and Arazi to return?” Malone asked.

  “A day, maybe two. Don’t worry, policeman. They’ll get in touch with you. I promise,” Anderman said.

  “Did you know Sara in Israel?” Malone said.

  “I did.”

  “Have you heard from her parents?” Malone asked casually.

  “No,” Anderman answered.

  Malone saw the small shadow that crossed Anderman’s eyes when he lied.

  Starling Johnson drove the unmarked car into Ericsson Place and parked behind a Sealand truck. He turned to Malone. “Want me to come with
you?”

  “I’d better go alone. They’re funny people.”

  Malone cut through a line of traffic that was moving into the Holland Tunnel. He stood on the curb on the south side of Varick Street checking to see if he’d been followed. He turned and entered the gilded lobby of 131 Varick Street. According to the directory, the Funding Development Corporation was on the tenth floor. It was the home base of NYPD’s Intelligence Division. Any cop in his right mind stayed well away from it.

  Malone stepped off the elevator into an enclosed anteroom that consisted of an old plug-type switchboard and a green metal desk topped with gray Formica, NYPD issue. A well-groomed woman in her late forties looked up.

  “I’d like to see Lt. Joe Mannelli,” Malone said. “I think he’s in Public Relations.”

  She gave Malone a cold glance, flopped open her palm, and said in a deadpan voice, “Credentials.”

  Malone handed them to her.

  She reached beneath the desk and pulled up a thick file of computer printouts fastened between blue plastic covers. While she was occupied flipping the pages to the M’s, Malone’s eyes scoured the tiny alcove. Two cameras were bracketed on the walls. Every damn place that he went in connection with this case had cameras.

  The woman slapped the identification card down on a line of typed symbols that contained the coded pedigree of Lt. Daniel Malone, NYPD. Her middle finger darted across the line. “What is your tax registry number, sir?”

  “Eight three three nine four nine.”

  “Date of promotion to Sergeant?”

  “August, ’sixty-seven.”

  “Where were you assigned when you left the Academy?”

  “Patrol in the Seven-nine.”

  She handed back his documents and slapped the binder closed. “By the way, sir. What’s a forty-nine?”

  “Hmm?”

  She repeated the question. Her right hand was hidden under the desk. Malone wondered if a .38 was aimed at his stomach.

  “A UF forty-nine is the official letterhead of the department.”

  “A twenty-eight?”

  “A UF twenty-eight is a request for time off.”

  “Thank you, Lou.” She grinned.

  Malone leaned across the desk. “Did I pass?”

  “Sure, lieutenants always pass.” She reached under the switchboard and pressed a button. The only door in the alcove sprung open. “Through there, Lou.”

  Malone stepped through and it closed behind him. There was another door in front of him. When it popped open, Malone saw the smiling face of Joe Mannelli. He hadn’t changed much in three years. There was a little more gray around the edges, but the stomach was still flat. One thing that Malone did notice was that the sparkle was gone from his friend’s eyes.

  They shook hands and Mannelli led him to his office.

  “How’s the spy business?” Malone asked, easing himself into a chair.

  “Full of trenchcoats falling over each other. What brings you here, Dan?” Mannelli’s tone of voice was normal, even casual, but Malone saw wariness around his eyes and mouth.

  When Malone finished telling Mannelli about the Eisinger case, Mannelli made a deprecatory shrug. “So? Why come to me?”

  Malone uncrossed his legs. “I want to know Eisinger’s connections with the CIA. Those two telephone numbers were restricted listings. Which means that she had a direct wire to someone in New York and McLean. I want you to arrange a meet with one of their people. Someone who’ll be able to give me some answers.”

  “Is that all?” Mannelli asked sardonically.

  “No. There’s more. I also want you to run some names through our intelligence file,” Malone took a piece of paper out and slid it across the desk. “Here is a list of everyone connected with this case, including the victim. I’ll probably have some more names for you as the case progresses.”

  Mannelli moved forward, strumming his fingertips on the top of his desk. “Have you any idea what you’re asking me to do?”

  “According to the department T.O. this unit is still part of the NYPD. Where the hell should I go for help, Nassau County?”

  “Danny boy, this department has no, repeat, no, connection with the CIA. And we don’t, repeat, do not, maintain intelligence files on American citizens. It’s against the fucking law, department policy, and the goddamn U.S. Constitution.”

  Malone’s reply was curt and precise. “Bullshit.”

  Mannelli watched him for a long minute, a cold smile on his lips.

  Malone was first to break the uncomfortable silence. “Joe, we’ve been friends a lot of years. We came on the job together. Were in the same class in the Academy. I’ve run into something that I think is in your ballpark. I need a favor. I’ve done a few for you over the years and now it’s my turn to ask. Remember Ann Logan?”

  Mannelli looked at him. He had not thought of that name in several years. Ten years ago Mannelli was a married sergeant with a pregnant girlfriend. He went to his friend Malone who arranged a visit to a doctor in Jersey City. Abortions weren’t legal then.

  “Got a cigarette?” Mannelli asked, reaching across the desk. “I gave them up two years ago. Now I only smoke O.P.’s … other people’s.…”

  Malone lit the cigarette for his friend. Mannelli leaned forward, clasping Malone’s hand, watching him over the flame.

  “Have you ever stopped to consider how many idioms we use in our job?” Mannelli said, resting his head back.

  “Not really.”

  “When someone ‘wants to buy you a suit’ or ‘give you a hat’ that means that there is a payoff waiting for you if you overlook a violation of law, fail to do your job. And then, Danny boy, there is the biggie, ‘he’s a standup guy.’ That little idiom refers to a man who can be trusted, a man who will deny everything, who will go before the grand jury and commit perjury to protect his friends and the Job. Are you a standup guy, Danny boy?” Mannelli suddenly looked very old. A knot of concern twisted Malone’s stomach. He looked at the solemn face in front of him. “I’ve always been a stand-up guy.”

  “Okay, old buddy.” Mannelli slapped his palms over the Formica. “After Knapp, things got tough in the Job. But the PC and the rest of the shining assholes left the Intelligence Division alone. They were so paranoid with corruption in the street that they forgot we existed. But along came Watergate and that changed fast. This end of the business got tighter than a clam’s ass, and that, in case you didn’t know, is waterproof. No one trusted anyone. The CIA got their pricks burned because they trained our people in the late fifties and early sixties. One of the Watergate bagmen came from our job and he didn’t stand up. Our covert operations were ordered disbanded. We were ordered to destroy our intelligence file, pull out all wires that were not ex parte, and stop playing nasty games with subversive groups. Chrissake, we were damn near out of business.”

  A skeptical grin appeared on Malone’s face. “You closed up shop?”

  “Not really,” Mannelli said, with a little smile. “We blended our records with the records of the Youth Division and subcontracted our subversive business to private detectives who we can trust. Officially, we went into low gear, concentrating only on the wise guys. And you know how goddamn boring they are.”

  “And now?”

  “Things have changed, pal. We get all kinds of foreign spooks and creeps, plenty of them with diplomatic cover, blowing away anybody they get mad at in every single fucking borough. Today we operate on a strictly need-to-know basis. Everything is compartmentalized, every unit has a little piece of the action. We work pretty close with the feds. What they are prohibited from doing under federal law we sometimes do for them. We also run interference for them when things get sticky … like now.” Mannelli leaned forward, his face somber. “Danny boy, you could not have picked a worse fucking time to come to me with this little drama of yours.”

  Malone was forced into a corner. “Why is that, Joe?”

  “What I’m going to tell you, I never said. Under
stand?”

  Malone nodded.

  “Do you remember reading about the hit on the second secretary of the Cuban Mission to the U.N.? His name was Rodriguez and it happened on May twelve of last year on Fifty-eighth Street and Queens Boulevard.”

  “I remember.”

  Mannelli continued. “Well, it turned out that Rodriguez was the head of Cuban Intelligence in this country. Castro went bananas over it. He threatened to blow away every CIA station chief in Latin America. The Agency people were able to convince him that we had nothing to do with the hit. They told him that it was some anti-Castro nuts operating on their own. They promised Castro that we’d do everything possible to I.D. the perps and pass their names on to him so that his people could deal with them. But here comes el rub-o. Detectives Caulfield and Williams of the One-oh-eight Squad caught the case. Two sharp pieces of bread. A nine-millimeter Deer gun was used to make the hit; it was found at the scene.”

  “A Deer gun,” Malone said, puzzled.

  Mannelli explained that during World War Two the OSS manufactured about a million units of the assassination weapon dubbed the Liberator. It was a small handgun that could be concealed in the palm of the hand and chambered a 45-caliber cartridge. The weapon had a simple twist-and-pull breechblock with extra rounds stored in the hollowed-out handgrip. The Liberator was distributed to the OSS clandestine forces in occupied countries. It had a smooth bore and was an excellent weapon for close killing.

  During the Vietnam War the design of the Liberator was brought up to date by the CIA. They developed the 9mm Deer gun for use in Southeast Asia. This weapon had an aluminum butt and a steel barrel that screwed in from the front. “I don’t know how the hell Caulfield and Williams did it, but they traced the murder weapon to a consignment purchased by the CIA over eight years ago. They also came up with four witnesses who positively I.D.’d the perp. They not only put him on the scene, they have him walking up to the car, raising the gun, and firing.”

  “So? What’s the problem?”

  “The problem, ol’ buddy, is that the perp and his accomplices are all CIA contract operatives in Omega Seven, the anti-Castro movement. And if that’s not bad enough, the weapon used on Rodriguez was also used in six other homicides around the country … all Fidel’s people.”