One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  “Christ! What a can of worms.”

  “You got it. Caulfield and Williams want arrest warrants issued for homicide and Washington wants the entire case shitcanned.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know.” He plucked a pencil from a blue mug on his desk and started to doodle, his head lowered in concentration. “The CIA boys aren’t going to tell you anything, Danny boy. They’re up to their asses in El Salvador and Nicaragua. They’ll deny everything. Do yourself a favor and don’t get involved in my league. You could get hurt.” He looked up, studying his effect. Satisfied, he waited for Malone to reply.

  “No way, Joe. I don’t shitcan cases.”

  Mannelli started to doodle again. “Maybe someone’ll shitcan you if you don’t take advice.”

  Malone appeared calm; he wasn’t.

  “Oh yeah? Any idea who?”

  “Just rumors,” Mannelli said, doodling.

  Malone snatched the pencil out of his hand, snapped it in two, and threw the pieces over his shoulder. “Tell me about them, Joe.”

  “Whispers that you’re getting involved in something you don’t belong in. Something that’s not in your league.”

  “Really? Well you listen to me, pal. I’m not going to close the Eisinger case with no results. I’m going to break the fucking thing wide open. And if I can’t do it with help from inside the Job, I’ll go to some of my newspaper friends who’d just love to do a little investigative reporting on a homicide that is CIA connected.”

  Mannelli studied the man sitting in front of him. He crumpled up his artwork into a ball and extended his arm sideways, suspending it in midair. He sprang open his fingers and watched the ball of paper fall into the wastebasket. “Okay, Danny boy. You’re over twenty-one. I’ll make a phone call for you. But don’t come crying back to me when you step on your cock.”

  Mannelli escorted Malone out to the elevator. They parted without speaking or shaking hands. Mannelli went back to his office, locked the door, and walked slowly across the room, deep in thought. In the corner next to the window was a file cabinet with a metal bar stuck through each handle of the five drawers and secured by a hasp drilled into the top and a thick magnetic lock. He reached behind the cabinet and pried off a magnet. Next he held the magnet over the lock and watched it spring open. The bar was slid out and laid over the cabinet. He pulled out the top drawer and removed a telephone, placing it on top of the cabinet and staring at it for several moments as though deciding whether to use it. He gnawed his lower lip as he picked up the receiver. When it was answered at the other end he simply said, “I need to have a piano tuned.”

  Ahmad Marku and Iban Yaziji saw the taxi make the right turn off Flatbush Avenue and drive onto Lafayette Avenue. They hurried over to the curb. When the taxi cruised to a stop in front of them, Marku opened the door and both men slid into the rear seat.

  The driver checked the oncoming traffic and drove away from the curb. With one eye on the road and the other on the rearview mirror, watching his two passengers, the driver said, “A problem has developed and you two are being detailed to correct it.”

  The passengers did not answer. They sat, staring into the face in the rearview mirror.

  The driver continued. “Andrea St. James was observed having lunch with Yachov Anderman. One of my men happened to be shopping on the Lower East Side. He saw her walking along Hester Street. He also saw two detectives in a department car tailing her. My man decided to tag along. He saw her enter this restaurant. One of the cops followed her inside. A short time later Anderman showed up and entered the restaurant. He sat at her table and they had what appeared to be a heated discussion.”

  “Damn!” Iban Yaziji exclaimed, slapping the seat next to him.

  “It looks like she was working for Anderman all along,” said the driver. “Either way, she has become a liability.”

  “What do you think she knows?” Marku said.

  “I don’t see how she could know very much. Working around the Interlude and doing those little odd jobs for us, she might have picked up bits and pieces. But we do not intend to take any chances. We want you to have a nice long talk with her.”

  “And after we are done talking?” Marku asked.

  The taxi pulled into the curb in front of the Brooklyn Public Library and stopped. The driver craned his head over his shoulders and looked at his passengers. “We feel that she should be silenced, permanently.”

  Ahmad Marku handed the driver a dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, sport. You can catch the subway across the street. I’d drive you back into Manhattan, but I don’t have the time. There are things that I have to do.”

  “We understand,” Yaziji said, shoving open the door.

  The taxi driver watched as the passengers crossed Eastern Parkway, making for the subway station. Suddenly the radio under the dashboard blared. “SOD Seven, what is your location, K?”

  The driver snatched the hand mike from its hook. As he did this he glanced out at the massive façade of the Brooklyn Public Library. It would not do to give this location, he thought. “SOD Seven to Central. This unit is at Christopher and Ninth, K.”

  “SOD Seven—ten-one your command, K.”

  “SOD Seven—ten-four.”

  The taxi driver returned the mike to its hook and drove off in search of a telephone to call his police command.

  When Malone and Johnson returned to the squad room they found Heinemann typing fives and Davis jerking off an outraged citizen who thought that her apartment should have been dusted for fingerprints. After all, they did steal her television and a pair of earrings.

  Malone went over to Davis. “I told you guys to go home and get some sleep.”

  Davis held up a protesting hand. “We figured we’d hang around till you got back, in case you needed us. But don’t worry. It’s on the arm. We’re not going to put in overtime slips. You can make it up to us when this caper is over. It’ll give us some splashin’ time.”

  Malone went into his office, glanced over the 60 sheet, and then looked over to O’Brien who was slumped in a chair, waiting. The detective told Malone that the woman they had followed from the Interlude to Braxton’s apartment had been I.D.’d as Andrea St. James. Further investigation revealed that St. James was a hooker who worked at the Interlude. O’Brien reported tailing her to the mikvah and he described her conversation in the restaurant with an unidentified man. He and his partner had followed her back to her apartment when she left the restaurant.

  “Describe the man she met in the restaurant,” Malone said.

  O’Brien flipped open his memo pad and read off the description.

  “Anderman!” Malone said, going over to the blackboard. He wrote “St. James” on the board and then blew his hands clean. He concluded that Andrea St. James had to be the same Andrea who had telephoned Eisinger in her office.

  Malone reluctantly telephoned Joe Mannelli and gave him the latest additions from central casting. Mannelli promised to do what he could. The exchange was cold and very formal.

  The detectives filed into Malone’s office. “What next, Lou?” Heinemann asked.

  Malone looked at their tired faces. “Go home. We’ll pick it up in the morning.”

  O’Shaughnessy pulled out a timetable and made some quick mental calculations. “I could see her and still catch the eight forty-two to Hicksville. That’ll give me time to see Foam.”

  “What about your marriage vows? Do they mean anything to you?” Davis said jokingly.

  “I took them fifteen years ago. The statute of limitations expired.”

  Malone picked up the receiver and tucked it under his chin as he dialed. With his free hand he started to jot down things he needed. “Inspector, Dan Malone. I’m in the mood to spring for dinner. Interested?”

  Gino’s was a miraculous little restaurant in the heart of Little Italy, miraculous because it had never been “discovered.” Sawdust covered the floor. Antique
tables with scroll-back chairs were haphazardly scattered about the bar and dining area. A large oil painting hung by the side of the oak bar. It showed Gino surrounded by a group of old Italian men laughing and drinking wine.

  “Danny how’r’ ya?” Gino said as Malone stepped through the door. Gino’s bald egghead seemed as shiny as ever. Only his stomach had changed; it had grown to astonishing proportions. Malone made the introductions. Gino moved the DiNobili to the other side of his mouth. “Pleased to meet you, Inspector. It’s good to see one of our own make it in the department.”

  “We’d like a table in the blue room,” Malone said, smiling.

  “Why-a sure. Just-a follow me, sir.” Gino led them into the dining area, a square room with a miniature balcony running across its length. Several of the neighborhood regulars looked up and made faint signs of recognition and then returned to their pasta. Gino ushered them to a table next to the stairway leading to the overhead balcony. “One minute, sir, while I prepare your table.” Gino picked up the grubby ashtray, emptying it on the floor. He snatched off the tablecloth, shaking it clean and reversing it before spreading it back across the table.

  Zambrano moved his head next to Malone’s. “A class joint,” he whispered.

  “I always take the boss top drawer,” Malone said.

  They ordered drinks. Malone told Gino to bring the special of the day.

  When their drinks arrived, Zambrano raised his. “Salud, goombah.”

  They touched glasses.

  Gino brought over a bowl of mussels, a platter of pasta shells, a bowl of linguini in white clam sauce, and a large salad. “A feast,” he said, putting the food down and turning, walking back into the bar area. He returned with a bottle of Chianti and two water glasses. “All the crystal got broke in the dishwasher,” he said, handing each man a glass. Gino leaned across the aisle and took Italian bread from the wall cabinet.

  Zambrano broke off the heel of the bread and dunked it into his wine. “What’s doing with the Eisinger case?” Zambrano asked, shoving the bread into his mouth.

  “If I had some extra men I’d like to plant them on the Eastern Shipping Company and the Interlude.” Malone sipped his wine, watching Zambrano over the rim. The next move was Zambrano’s.

  The inspector dug his fork into the pasta, rolling it onto his spoon. “What else would you do, if you had the men?” Zambrano shoveled the pasta into his mouth. Permission had been given. Malone could continue.

  “Tails. On Anderman, the Braxtons, and Andrea St. James,” Malone said, rolling his pasta.

  “Anything else?” Zambrano asked.

  “Wires on all the locations.”

  “You’re talking about a very expensive operation,” Zambrano said, reaching for the salad. “I’d be hard put to justify setting up an operation like that for one insignificant homicide that was yesterday’s headline. This is June, and we’ve had over seven hundred and eighty-three homicides. No one gets excited over one more.”

  “My instinct tells me that this is a heavy case.”

  Zambrano sipped his drink. “For instance?”

  “Little things,” Malone said, picking up a spoon and moving shells around in the bowl. “The fact that she had two CIA telephone numbers in her book and they never heard of her. The fact that a certain member of our Intelligence Division knew about the case, and suggested that I forget about it. The fact that I’ve been getting threatening telephone calls from someone on the Job. I’ve got a feeling that there are heavyweights involved in this one.”

  “Wanna tell me about those telephone calls?”

  “No. When I know more, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Zambrano gulped the remains of his drink and looked at him. “From what you’ve told me, you don’t have any grounds to go into court and ask for ex parte orders.”

  Malone shoveled some shells onto his plate. “We could employ extrajudicial methods,” he said, raising his glass.

  “Black-bag stuff? In this day and age? They’d slice your balls into the lasagna if you got caught. Mine too.”

  They settled in to enjoying their dinner and ate with gusto. Malone waited; first food, then talk—it was a ritual evolved by wise men, one that both men understood and respected.

  Zambrano pushed away from the table, reaching down and taking hold of the roll of fat hanging over his waist, shaking it. “I must have put on five pounds.” He reached for the wine. “I can let you have some men on a steal for a week,” he said, pouring.

  “How many?” Malone asked, scraping a piece of bread around the bowl of mussels.

  “Six, maybe seven.”

  “What about conversion cars for the tails?”

  “There aren’t enough to go around now.”

  Malone drank. “I’ll manage without then. Any chance of getting a surveillance truck?”

  Zambrano waved his hand. “No way. Each borough has one assigned. Ours is being used uptown.”

  “If I should manage to lay my hands on one would you look the other way?”

  “As long as no weight comes down from headquarters, yes.”

  “I’ll need a second whip to help me coordinate the operation.”

  Zambrano sighed. “I’ll let you steal Jack Harrigan from the Tenth. He’s one of the best and a solid standup guy.”

  A consensus had been reached. Malone had gotten what he wanted without asking directly; without putting Zambrano in the uncomfortable position of having to say no. Malone ended the ritual with the ordained, “Thank you, Inspector.”

  Malone motioned to Gino. “Black coffee and Sambucca, with coffee beans.”

  Zambrano raised his pony glass and stared at the thick white liqueur.

  “Dan, you’re a good cop.” He sipped the Sambucca and smacked his lips. “This Eisinger thing is a bone stuck in your throat. Spit it out before it chokes both of us. Put it on the back burner.”

  Malone looked down. “No way, Inspector.”

  “You’re telling me that it’s personal.”

  Malone’s head shot up. “You’re fucking-A right I am.”

  “Why do you have such a hard-on for this case?”

  Malone swirled the liqueur around in his glass. “So far the Job has cost me my marriage, most of my normal friends, and a lot of sleep. But I still like being a cop. It’s what I do best. Most of the homicides I catch are grounders; the rest are either drug related or mob hits and who gives a fuck anyway. But every now and then one comes along that cries to be solved; that’s the Eisinger homicide. Besides, I don’t like to be pressured into not doing my job. Irishmen are like that; we’re ornery and thick-headed.”

  “I know. But you’ve just used up a lot of credit. I’m going to give you eight days then I’ll let you take an exceptional clearance and file the damn thing.”

  “You’re telling me to dump this case.”

  “No, I’m not. God help me if I ever gave such an order. But there are other priorities.”

  6

  TUESDAY, June 16 … Morning

  Janet Fox was sitting cross-legged on the bed removing the rollers from her hair when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch and saw that it was only ten minutes after eight. She got off the bed and went to see who was at her door.

  “Detective Davis,” the voice said. “I was here the other day with my partner.”

  She remembered. He was the one with the nice shoulders and cute behind. She looked through the peephole to make sure, told him to wait a minute, and then ran back into the bedroom. She put on a pair of slacks and a plain cotton top and quickly brushed out her hair.

  “I had a few more people in the building to interview,” Davis said, stepping into the apartment.

  “You’ve already questioned me,” she said, closing the door.

  He faced her. “Janet, this case is going nowhere fast. So far you’re the only person we’ve come up with who called Eisinger a friend. I came by this morning to ask you if you’ve thought of anything additional that might help us, no
matter how insignificant you might think it is.”

  She smiled. “I’m useless in the morning without that first cup of coffee. Care to join me?”

  It was a small kitchen with a lot of sunlight and a round table next to the window. She put a plate of hot croissants down and sat opposite him.

  “I’ve been racking my brain to see if there was anything that I forgot to tell you,” she said, reaching for the butter. “There isn’t.”

  “We find it difficult to believe that Eisinger was so closed about her personal life,” he said, breaking off a piece of the croissant, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “Why? A lot of people are very private types.”

  “Hmm. Tell me, what kind of person was she?”

  “Sometimes she seemed afraid of the world and then there were times she appeared strong and completely in control.” She watched him. “Will you catch the people responsible?”

  “We’re going to give it our best shot,” he said, noticing that her eyes were green.

  “She was also a kind and considerate woman. I had recently ended a long relationship and was quite distraught. Sara spent time with me and listened and let me cry on her shoulder. That Friday when I was about to leave for the weekend, Sara came to my apartment and gave me her Bible as a gift. She said that it would bring me peace and help me find the right road.”

  “You just ended a relationship and were upset over it and then you went away for a weekend with your boss?”

  “That was nothing. I had to see if I could be with another man after …” She looked down into her cup.

  He understood. “Why didn’t you tell us about the Bible before?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of indifference. “I didn’t think of it. It’s just a Bible. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes.”

  Its edges were frayed and brittle. On the inside cover was a colored lithograph of barefoot Arabs loaded down like beasts of burden, walking along the timeless Bethlehem Road below the Citadel of Zion. One of the Arabs reminded Davis of Malone. He smiled. In the background an old man was leading a donkey. A girl was astride the weary animal. She was laughing and waving at the long-forgotten photographer. Davis felt he had been transported to a day when the earth was barely formed. He felt Sara Eisinger’s presence. Her smells clung to the book—perfume … lipstick … makeup. He haphazardly flipped the pages.