One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  “May I borrow this for a few days?” he asked.

  “If you promise to return it.”

  “Of course. One good turn deserves another,” Davis said, picking up his coffee cup. “How about dinner some evening?”

  Another one who is married, with a problem, but then, aren’t they all, she thought. But she smiled and said, “Why not?”

  The squad room was deserted. The rumble of laughter seeped from behind the door of the lieutenant’s office. Malone went over and slowly turned the knob. A cluster of detectives were gathered around the blackboard. O’Shaughnessy was standing in the middle. Draped over the board was a poster of a nude woman. She was lying on her back and her legs were spread wide. Jake Stern was standing beside the poster holding a ruler and pointing. Starling Johnson was standing next to Stern.

  “This, gentlemen, is the female sex organ. The vagina,” Stern instructed. “Our friend and colleague Pat O’Shaughnessy has finally tasted its wondrous fruit.”

  A polite smattering of applause rose from the group.

  “Good show.”

  “Better late than never.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  “Gentlemen, this slivered erectile structure here that resembles a long boat is the most sensitive part of a woman’s body. The clitoris. Kindly observe at the top … a small rounded tubercle consisting of spongy erectile tissue. This is the glans clitoris, the most erotic part of this wonderful, sweet-tasting paradise.”

  “Brilliant dissertation,” Heinemann said, clapping from the sideline.

  Another burst of applause rose from the detectives.

  Stern bowed, acknowledging the acclamation. He held up a quieting hand. “Please observe that the glans clitoris resembles a man standing in a boat. Hence, we receive the nickname … the man in the boat. It was here that our friend Pat went astray. Instead of concentrating on the man in the boat he licked the vaginal orifice.”

  “That’s what I did,” O’Shaughnessy agreed, crestfallen.

  “A common mistake among beginners,” Starling Johnson said.

  Malone was fuming. He threw the door fully open and stormed in.

  “I really hate to interrupt your critique! I went for twenty-five bucks taking Zambrano to dinner … telling him how overworked you are … how we need help on the Eisinger thing; and what do I find? A bunch of middle-aged whoremasters trying to teach someone how to eat a woman. If he doesn’t know now he’ll never know!”

  “It’s never too late to learn,” Stern said, ducking out the door.

  Malone was unable to suppress a smile.

  “How’ya doin’, Lou?”

  Malone turned. A wiry Irishman was leaning his chair back against the wall cleaning his nails with a silver pocket-knife.

  “I’m Jack Harrigan. Understand I’m on lend-lease for a couple of weeks. I got six detectives with me.” Det. Sergeant Jack Harrigan had graduated summa cum tough from Stick-ball U. in Greenpoint. Malone felt that he could be trusted.

  “What about the men who came with you. Know them?” Malone’s forehead furrowed, eyes clouded.

  Harrigan saw the doubt, understood the seemingly innocent question; a query steeped in the subtle nuance of the policeman’s language.

  “I picked each one myself,” Harrigan confided. “If the shit hits the fan each one of them will stand like the Rock of Gibraltar.”

  “Do they know how to install wires and video tape?”

  “Do Guineas wear undershirts in the summer?” Harrigan popped the chair forward. “Wadayagot for me, Lou?”

  For the next ninety minutes Malone detailed the Eisinger case. When he finished he looked at Harrigan. “I want you to coordinate the operation.”

  Harrigan cocked his head, tugging at his right earlobe. “A lot of homicides go down each year. Except for a cop killing or when some heavy dude gets his ass blown away, we don’t pull out all the stops. So why have so many men been taken off the chart on the Eisinger case?”

  Malone steepled his hands over his nose, massaging the bridge with his forefingers. “Because I want this one, Jack.”

  Harrigan pursed his lips, nodding. “I can dig that. Four years ago I caught a case that became personal. Almost came in my pants when the perp was sentenced from zip to life.” A puzzled frown crossed Harrigan’s face. “For the kind of operation you want, we don’t have enough men or wheels. We need conversion vehicles and men. Ain’t no way six or seven detectives are going to keep half a dozen under surveillance round the clock.”

  Malone agreed. He told Harrigan that he wanted the Eastern Shipping Company sat on. Two teams of two men each working twelve hour tours should be able to do. Also the Interlude. Any extra detectives were to tail randomly; jumping from one suspect to the other. “… We could get lucky.”

  “And what do we do for wheels?” Harrigan asked.

  “I’ve arranged things,” Malone said. “The telephone company is going to lend us some repair trucks. I got a mail truck from the post office and an ambulance from Gotham Ambulance Service. Con Edison is lending us one of their vans. On Monday I visited a friend in Bed-Stuy. He’s letting us use two of his gypsy cabs. I went by the radio shop and signed out eight portables. All set on the same frequency.”

  “And where do we park this motor pool?” Harrigan asked.

  “At the First. You’ll use that as headquarters. I’ve spoken to the C.O. of Narcotics. He is going to let us use a desk and a telephone.”

  Harrigan grinned. “You’ve done your homework.”

  When Bo Davis arrived later that morning he went directly into Malone and told him of his visit to Janet Fox. He handed the lieutenant the Bible and left. Malone hefted the book in his hand, thumbed through a few pages, and dropped it on his desk.

  Three hours later Gus Heinemann thrust his head into Malone’s office. “Anderman is outside. And he has two beards with him.”

  “Arazi and Henkoff,” Malone said, rounding his desk and hurrying into the squad room.

  “See, policeman, I told you I’d bring them around,” Anderman said, beaming.

  They stood in silent defiance looking up at the ceiling, NEVER AGAIN buttons pinned to their shirts. Both wore patched jeans and had fledgling beards and yarmulkas. Arazi was a skinny kid with bulging china-blue eyes and a large Adam’s apple that slid up and down every time he talked. Henkoff was short. He had a barrel chest and rounded shoulders that gave him an appearance of brute strength. A wide bandage ran vertically along the bridge of his nose.

  Malone motioned them to sit. They shuffled over, sprawling into the chairs, surveying the walls with do-me-something smirks on their faces.

  Malone began. “What were you two doing following Aldridge Braxton and his friends?”

  Arazi glared up at the policeman. “We don’t have to tell you anything.”

  Arazi’s shrill voice irritated Malone.

  “No fascist cop can force us to answer questions,” Henkoff said.

  Heinemann slipped off the desk and moved between Malone and the two seated men. The heel of his shoe crashed into Arazi’s foot—a demolition ball falling down.

  Arazi leaped up, dancing on one foot, holding the injured limb. “You did that on purpose,” he screamed.

  Heinemann’s face was wrapped in a blanket of shocked innocence. He clutched at his heart. “Sir. We do not beat people … it’s unprofessional.”

  “And counterproductive,” Starling Johnson hastened to add.

  Anderman moved between the detectives and his employees, his eyes narrowing with displeasure, glaring his warning to behave at Arazi and Henkoff. “Save that undergraduate bullshit for the campus,” Anderman said.

  “We’ll try again,” Malone said. “Why were you following Aldridge Braxton?”

  Henkoff answered. “We weren’t following him. We were interested in his two Arab friends.”

  “What Arabs?” Malone said.

  Arazi looked up at him. “Ahmad Marku and Iban Yaziji—the two men who were with him at
the Interlude. Marku is a Saudi and Yaziji is a Libyan. They both belong to the Moslem Brotherhood.”

  “So what?” Malone said. “That don’t give you the right to follow people.”

  “We belong to the Jewish Defense League at City College. Part of our duties is to follow Arab fanatics and report their movements to our superiors in JDL,” Henkoff said.

  “Be advised, my young friend, that there are many people who think the JDL is as loony as the Moslem Brotherhood. And be further advised that, according to section 240.25 of the Penal Law, any person who follows another person in or about a public place or places is guilty of harassment. If I find either of you stepping out of line again I promise you a little vacation on Rikers Island. Understand?”

  They nodded their heads sullenly.

  “Who killed Sara Eisinger?” Malone said.

  Arazi shook his head. “I don’t know. I heard about Sara’s death from Mr. Anderman.”

  “You said her name like you’ve said it many times before … Sara,” Malone said. “Gus, watch the schoolboys. I want a conference with our Mr. Anderman.” Malone grabbed Anderman by the elbow and herded him into his office.

  Malone held a pencil loosely in his hand, tapping it over the desk, occasionally playing tag with a couple of paper clips. Anderman sat opposite, staring up at the wall.

  Malone pushed one paper clip against another. “Mr. Anderman, you and your two schoolboys are full of shit. You don’t really expect me to buy that cockamamie story about following Arabs for a JDL fraternity?”

  Anderman shrugged. “Policeman, it’s the truth.”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if you fell over it.”

  “I’m in the importing business—nothing else.” Anderman started to get up.

  “Plant your ass down there, Anderman. I’m not finished with you yet.”

  Anderman complied, reluctantly.

  “Who killed Eisinger?”

  “I … don’t … know!”

  “Why was she killed?”

  “Same answer, policeman. Those two assholes were only trying to be big men on campus; don’t look to make something out of nothing.”

  “By the way, how was your lunch with Andrea St. James? It’s too bad you didn’t find the list in the mikvah.” Malone leaned back, watching him.

  Anderman gasped; his mouth opened, stunned. “How did you know about that?”

  “We have our ways. We found the list in her apartment during our initial search,” he lied.

  “Impossible.” Anderman cut the air with a disbelieving hand.

  “It was hidden behind the kitchen molding,” Malone said, twirling three paper clips around the point of a pencil.

  Anderman got up, leaning across the desk. His face was inches from the policeman’s. “I want that list.”

  “Why?”

  “If you have it, you know why.” Anderman’s eyes widened with enlightenment. He knew a good shot at a con job when he saw it. Slowly he retreated back across the desk and sat. “You’re good, policeman.”

  “People do have the habit of underestimating us,” Malone said, grinning.

  Anderman pushed himself up out of the chair. “Policeman, it has been a pleasure. If you ever want to talk again, just call. I’ll be waiting with my lawyer.”

  “We can do business now, Anderman. Later there will be no deals. Help us and we’ll do right by you.”

  “Shalom, policeman. I have to go and unpack some crates.”

  After Anderman and the schoolboys had gone, Malone went over to Heinemann and told him to try to scrounge a surveillance truck from somewhere.

  “Lou? Those things are worth their weight in gold. It’s almost impossible,” Heinemann said.

  Malone gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Give it a shot anyway.”

  Malone went back into his office and picked up the Bible. He flipped through its pages looking for a cutout compartment and found none. Next he rubbed each page to see if they separated. They did not. He held the book up to the light and looked into its spine and saw nothing. He placed it down in front of him and stared at it.

  He chucked open the cover with his middle finger and ran his fingertips over the back of the cover. Then he felt it. A thin serration of glue at the bottom. There was something concealed underneath. He pushed back from his desk and opened the top drawer; as he did this he called out to the detectives. “Get in here.”

  Before he closed the drawer he removed a penknife, opened it, and carefully guided the blade along the bottom of the page. When the incision was complete, he fished his forefinger inside the cut and slid out a sheet of onionskin. Ten addresses typed single space: Trenton, Wilmington, Savannah, San Diego, Eureka, Corpus Christi, Juneau, Texas City, Newark; he recognized the last address. It was on Borden Avenue in Long Island City. He got up and walked over to the filing cabinet. He slid open the bottom drawer and removed a road map of the United States. He then went over to the blackboard and taped the map over the top of the board. Holding the list in front of him, Malone proceeded to circle each of the cities in red pencil. When he finished, he took three steps back and began to study the map.

  “Maybe they’re cat houses for horny Jews,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  “Jews don’t get horny,” Stern said, moving up to the blackboard. He stared at it thoughtfully. “They’re all on or near the coast.”

  Heinemann looked at Malone. “Any ideas?”

  “Not really.” Malone took out a memo pad and made a copy of the locations. He slid the list into his pocket and handed the original and the Bible to Davis. “Invoice these and put them someplace safe.”

  “How do you want me to list them on the voucher?” Davis asked.

  Malone pondered the question. “A book and one sheet of onionskin.”

  “Aren’t we going to try and find out what’s at those locations?” asked Heinemann.

  Malone’s eyes swept the detectives. “We’re going to find out. But not through official channels. They’ve had a tendency to leak lately. I want none of you to discuss what we’ve found. No one outside this squad is to know. Capisce?”

  The detectives nodded.

  Starling Johnson meandered over to the blackboard. “That bes a lot of territory to cover. How ya goin’ to do it without help?”

  Malone winked at him. “It’s dues-payin’ time, ma man.”

  It was after lunch when Davis received a telephone call from his friend in Army Intelligence. The male star of the porno film that they had found in Eisinger’s apartment had been identified. His name was Maj. James Landsford, and he was stationed at Fort Totten in Queens. “He’s waiting to be interviewed,” Davis said to Malone.

  “Pat and Starling will come with me. The rest of you, hold it down,” Malone said.

  Fort Totten is squeezed onto a few acres of land that overlooks the western tip of Long Island Sound. The Cross Island Parkway runs past the main gate. Smart-looking M.P.’s with patent-leather holsters and white lanyards are stationed outside the gate’s guardhouse. Parked clusters of military trucks with white stars painted on their doors can often be seen from the parkway.

  No regular military units were assigned to Fort Totten, as far as Malone knew. Ostensibly it was a place where military dependents waited for transportation overseas. Three barracks with bizarre-shaped antennas that ran hundreds of feet into the sky were located in the center of the fort. An electric fence surrounded the barracks. Dressed in army fatigues, men with automatic weapons strapped across their chests patrolled the perimeter. There was a helicopter pad nearby. There was also a marina where pleasure craft tied up at night—boats with bulkheads crammed with high-frequency radio panels and strange antennas cluttering their masts. But Malone would learn about them in days to come.

  A jeep with two armed M.P.’s led the unmarked police car to a quonset hut where two more M.P.’s waited. The soldiers snapped to attention and saluted. One of them turned smartly and opened the door. A tall, thin man in tailored fatigues and s
hort gray hair was waiting. There was a slight touch of Dixie in his voice. “Welcome, gentlemen. I am Colonel Claymore, the provost marshal of this base.”

  Claymore’s office was functional and strictly government issue. An American flag was on station in the corner; pictures of the president, secretary of the army, the joint chiefs, and a print of Washington crossing the Delaware were on the wall.

  “Why do you want to interview Landsford?” Claymore asked, swiveling from side to side in his chair.

  “We have reasonable grounds to believe that Landsford is involved in a homicide.”

  “Well … I’m afraid you’ve arrived a bit too late. He’s dead … just found a few hours ago. Heart attack.”

  “I want to see the body,” Malone said.

  “Want, Lieutenant?” Claymore said, hunching forward.

  “Yes, Colonel. Want!”

  “I think you’re forgetting that this is a military reservation. You have no authority on this land, Lieutenant.”

  Malone smiled. “That’s what I would call a cloudy issue, Colonel. Some people, in fact most, agree with you. But I’ll tell you what the NYPD does have. We have access to the little old newspaper and television people. They’re our friends. Allies. Why those people in the Fourth Estate would jump on a story about how a Colonel Claymore of the U.S. Army refused to cooperate with the local sheriff in solving the murder of a poor defenseless girl.”

  Claymore glared and then said, in a deliberate, slow way, “There are matters of national security involved.”

  “Aren’t there always?” Malone said, adding, “Don’t worry, we’re good Americans.”

  Resigned to giving ground, Claymore reluctantly replied, “He killed himself.”