Malone didn’t know why, but he had half expected that answer. He canceled Claymore’s questioning look with one of his own. “We think Landsford was being blackmailed.”
“He was,” Claymore agreed. “Landsford left a suicide note. In it he mentioned the blackmail.”
“May I see it?”
“It’s classified.”
“What were Landsford’s duties at Totten?”
“His work was secret … sorry.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Married. Three children. Graduated from the Point. Picked up a couple of Purple Hearts and other decorations in Nam.”
“I’d like to see the body … just to satisfy my morbid curiosity.”
The provost marshal of Fort Totten shook his head in disgust. “Aw shit. Okay. Let’s go.”
As they were walking to the jeeps that were waiting to take them to the BOQ, Malone turned to Claymore and asked him if Landsford had always been assigned to the Quartermaster Corps.
“He was an infantry man,” Claymore said, stepping into the front of the jeep.
There was very little of Maj. James Landsford’s face that wasn’t bloody. Brain matter splatted the wall. A small entrance wound in the right temple was covered with heavy powder tattooing. The left side of the head was gone. No weapon was in sight; Malone assumed that the army had grabbed it fast, before the NYPD arrived.
Even in death Landsford possessed a strangely military bearing. His chin was tucked in tight against his neck. Legs together. It was as though he had stood at attention the second he pulled the trigger.
Men in tailored fatigues without any insignia or badges of rank were systematically searching the BOQ with grim concentration. They ignored the detectives.
Malone knelt next to the body. He rubbed his forefinger around the entrance wound. Charcoal grains stuck in his fingertip. Malone brought his hand down and slid it inside Landsford’s shirt. The skin was cold. He looked up at Claymore who was standing over him, watching.
“Where is the weapon he used?” Malone asked, getting up.
“We have it.”
“Any chance of getting a look at the suicide note?”
“As I told you before … it’s classified.”
“Appears to me that everything around this fort is secret or classified. Makes one kind of curious.… What the hell kind of place you running, Colonel?”
Claymore looked angry. He moved off, without responding, to a group of army personnel who were huddled in the next room. Malone went after him, catching him by the elbow.
“Where is Landsford’s family?”
Claymore shook his arm free. “In Texas. Landsford used to fly home on weekends.”
“That’s a long and expensive flight to take every weekend,” Malone said.
“Takes civilians time to understand us simple army folk,” Claymore said.
Lt. Joe Mannelli leaned against a jeep smoking a cigarette. When he saw Malone and the detectives leave the BOQ, Mannelli flipped the cigarette away and waved to them.
“Well, I’ll be,” Malone said, watching Mannelli approach.
“Just happened to be in the neighborhood. When I saw the car, I said to myself, ‘Joe, I bet that unmarked department auto belongs to my old friend Malone.’”
“Bullshit, Lieutenant, sir,” Johnson said.
Mannelli grabbed Malone’s arm and waltzed him away. “Look at that grass. Wish I could get my lawn to look like that.”
“Cut the small talk, Joe. What the hell do you want?”
“I’m the liaison between the fort and the city.”
“That includes the Job?”
“It does.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’m here to tell you …” He stopped midsentence and looked at Malone. “No. Not to tell you. To suggest, that you forget about this base and everything on it. Including Landsford. That’s the way they want it on the fourteenth floor.”
Malone looked him in the eye, surprised. “This thing reaches up to the PC?”
“The PC has cognizance of and control over everything that happens in the Job.”
“Save that bullshit for the rookies in the Academy. Why this case?”
“Because the fucking powers that be don’t want the U.S. Army dragged into your fucking little drama. That’s why. In case you’ve forgotten, the banks and the U.S. Government are supporting this town. It just wouldn’t do to get either of them mad at us.”
“You suggesting that I close the case with negative results?”
“Just leave the goddamn army and Landsford out of it.” Mannelli hooked his arm around Malone’s shoulder, pulling him close. “There are matters of national security involved.” Malone pulled away. He was getting tired of hearing about national security.
They strolled in silence down the winding streets, admiring the willows and manicured lawns.
Malone finally looked at the man walking at his side and said, “What the hell is going on here, Joe?”
“Danny boy, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I’m only the guy they call whenever a problem arises with the local gendarmes.”
“When am I going to hear from your connection at the CIA?”
“Things like that require careful orchestration. They don’t happen overnight.”
After several moments, Malone turned to him. “Tell the people on the fourteenth floor that I’ll do the right thing.”
“Never doubted it for a minute,” he said, patting Malone’s back.
As the detectives were getting back into their car, Malone turned to Starling Johnson. “Remind me to ask Bo to contact his friend in Army Intelligence. I want a copy of Landsford’s military record. I can’t help but wonder why a decorated infantry man was working in the Quartermaster Corps.”
“Right,” Johnson said, starting the engine.
The department auto slowed as it approached the guardhouse. An M.P. stepped outside and bent to scrutinize the occupants of the vehicle. He waved them through. O’Shaughnessy was sitting in the back seat. He suddenly lurched forward, shaking Malone by the shoulders. “Lou, look!”
A panel truck turned off the service road from the Cross Island Parkway and sped into the semicircular driveway to the main gate. David Ancorie was driving. An M.P. leaned out of the guardhouse, looked at the approaching vehicle and its driver, and waved it through.
A gypsy cab with LICENSED BY THE PEOPLE stenciled across its rear doors followed the panel truck into the driveway, then made a U-turn and drove out, parking on the service road. The driver of the gypsy cab adjusted his sunglasses as the department auto drove by. Harrigan’s man was sticking close.
Malone was turned in his seat, watching the panel truck disappear inside the base.
“What the hell is Ancorie doing on a U.S. Army base?” O’Shaughnessy said.
“I’ve got a better question. Why did that M.P. wave him on through without even asking him what his name was?” Malone said.
Malone was examining the equipment in a square, gray, windowless van parked in the no-parking zone in front of the Fifth Precinct. Large red reflectors had been set into the corners of the van, peepholes through which detectives could film and watch unsuspecting people. A person walking by the rear of the van who glanced inside would see stacks of cartons piled to the roof, a special optical illusion of which the van’s creators at Motor Transport were especially proud. Malone had entered the interior of the van through a sliding metal door with a two-way mirror in its center. Immediately on the left was a chemical toilet. When Malone turned from examining the telephones, electronic and movie equipment, he found Heinemann standing in wonder over the toilet. He was fascinated by its compactness. His ass would smother the bowl, he reckoned.
“How’d you ever manage this coup?” Malone said.
“’Twas nothing, master,” Heinemann said gleefully. “A war veteran I was in the Crimea with, Seventh Hussars, works in Motor Transport. To make a long story longer, th
e van came in from the Bronx for a tuneup. We got it on the Q.T. for a few days.”
“I think the time has come for us to take a look inside the Interlude,” Malone said. He turned to Bo Davis. “I’d like you to run over to Abe’s Army and Navy store on Whitehall Street. It’s next to the old draft induction building. Show Abe your shield, tell him you work with me, and ask him to lend us two army officer’s uniforms. Starling and Jake are going to make outstanding officers. We’ll use the key we found in Eisinger’s apartment and try to bluff our way inside.”
“What about Andrea St. James?” Davis said. “After your talk with Anderman she’s going to know we’re on to her. Want us to pick her up?”
“Let’s play her a little longer,” Malone said. “Anderman might spook her when he tells her that we know about their lunch together. She just might get careless and lead us somewhere.” Malone turned and asked Heinemann if the telephones inside the van were working. Heinemann assured him they were. Malone moved to the battery of telephones and picked one up, dialing.
Jack Harrigan answered. “Lou, I was just about to call you.”
“What’s the story with Ancorie at Fort Totten?” Malone asked.
Harrigan told the lieutenant that Ancorie had left the Eastern Shipping Company and driven directly to the fort. One of Harrigan’s men followed in a gypsy cab. Ancorie stayed at the fort for forty-six minutes and then left, going back to Eastern Shipping.
There was a pause on the line. “Lou, there is something else that I have to tell you. Andrea St. James has given us the slip. She went into the Hotel Granada and my men lost her. We figure that she must have ducked out one of the side entrances.”
Pat O’Shaughnessy sprawled over the lumpy sofa and lit a cigarette. There had been four hours to kill before they tried to get into the Interlude, so Pat decided to give his old standby Foam a call. The other detectives went on to do their own things. Heinemann went to the Ninth’s club meeting; he knew there’d be a big game; Stern went to the precinct’s gym in the basement to work out; Malone and Johnson drove to Second Avenue to get some Indian food.
Pat watched her standing in the cramped kitchen off the living room doing the dishes. He wondered what she would say if she knew the nickname the guys in the Squad had given her. When she first told him that she was going to use contraceptive foam, she’d said, “Now you won’t have to use those rubber things anymore,” watching his face, waiting for his approval.
It was a primitively furnished apartment that in many ways reminded him of her life—empty and dismal. Whenever he called her she was available. He wondered if she spent her life waiting for his infrequent telephone calls. Did she really believe the lies that he told her? Men have been telling women those same lies since the beginning of time. How could she possibly believe me? Single broads who date married men need those lies to maintain their self-respect, he reasoned. There were times when he felt sorry for her and the legions just like her. They spent a few nights a week with their married boyfriends and the weekends alone, usually in a bottle of gin.
Foam was not the usual Manhattan type who had been knocking around the singles’ bars for years. She never went to bars. She was a simple woman who Pat knew loved him very much. And that was the part that bothered him. She gave him everything that she had to give and he gave her nothing but lies. But she was over twenty-one, and whatever she did was her decision. He never forced her. She was with him because she wanted to be with him, he reasoned. And there was no way he was going to give up such a good deal. If she wanted to waste her life on him, that was just fine. He watched her drying the dishes and thought, She’s a real boat jumper; brogue and all.
When Pat had telephoned her and told her that he was coming over, Karen Murphy hurried from her second-floor walkup on Sixty-first Street and spent her last fifteen dollars on a roast. It did not matter that she only had change left in her pocketbook. She was going to cook dinner for her Pat.
Karen had been a thirty-one-year-old virgin when they met. Many times before that first meeting she had lain in her bed at night and wondered what it would be like to be with a man. Sometimes she would let her hand roam her body, pretending that she was not alone.
They met at one of those large Manhattan parties where few of the people know one another and everyone appears clutching a green bottle of wine in a paper bag. She was taken back by the forcefulness of his warm personality and his beautiful smile. He had a cleft in his chin that she loved almost immediately. He was everything she ever wanted in a man; there was only one problem—he was married. They spent that first evening together, talking. He was so sincere that it never crossed her mind that he might not be telling her the truth. He spoke of his loneliness and of his quest for someone with whom he might share his life; he told her of his wife’s unfaithfulness, her drinking, how she mistreated his children. She saw in him a man in need of a woman’s love; a troubled man with great inner conflict. Here was a man who put the needs of his children before his own needs and desires. She could love such a man.
Tonight she was taking her time doing the dishes, trying to muster the courage to ask Pat about his plans for their future. Over the years he had often alluded to a life together, but somehow he always avoided being specific. The years were going by, and she felt that he should make a commitment, one way or the other. When the last dish was dried she cleaned off the sink and folded the towel over the faucet. She walked into the living room and sat on the floor next to him. Resting her face over his groin, she asked him how he had enjoyed dinner.
“Terrific. You are some cook.”
“I love you so.” She was looking up into his eyes.
He tried to reply in kind but was unable to. He had never been able to say those words. Many times he tried to say them, wanted to say them; but they just would not come. “Me too, Karen.”
“Pat, will we ever have a life together?” She was aware that she was holding her breath.
Here comes the bullshit, he thought. What do I do? Get up and leave, or stay and feed her some more lies. He felt a pang of guilt for helping her waste so many years of her life; but her face sure felt good resting over him. He felt himself getting hard. I’d sure hate to have to give her up, he thought. I’ll string her along for another year, maybe two, and then …
“Karen, I always thought that you knew how I felt about us. As soon as my children get a little older I’ll leave my wife. We’ll have our life together. I promise.”
She was happy. Her Pat had reassured her. She touched the swelling in his pants. “Let’s go into the bedroom,” she said.
Karen Murphy arched her back and slid off her cotton briefs. She was naked. She watched him undress. His boxer shorts were two sizes too big and his undershirt was gray and stretched out of shape. He flipped off his shoes and came into her bed wearing his socks and undershirt.
Karen loved him for himself, not for his lovemaking. He had a small penis and was conscious of it. He required constant assurance and would always ask her if he satisfied her and if he was big enough for her. She had never really enjoyed sex. As her mother had told her, it was something that women have to do, so it was best to get it over with as quickly as possible. She had learned to fake an orgasm to coincide with his.
She sucked him until he was hard and then lay back. He entered her immediately, without benefit of a kiss or foreplay. Karen undulated wildly. She began to say, “Fuck me. Fuck me.” He liked to hear her curse when they were doing it. He pumped her in silence, never emitting a sound. She could tell from his breathing that he was almost ready.
“Now! Come with me.” She clamped her legs around his hips and rammed her pelvis up into his body. “I’m coming.”
His body sagged on top of her.
She continued to vise him to her. “You’re so wonderful. I love making love with you.”
He did not answer her. He broke her grip on his body and rolled off her. He was asleep within minutes.
She studied his face as he slept. S
ex is so unimportant, she thought. She leaned over and kissed his lips.
That night just before nine a gray van rolled to a stop and parked across the street from the Interlude. The spill of street lamps sliced through the darkness, spreading their even circles over the sidewalk.
Starling Johnson and Jake Stern, both of whom were dressed as army officers, turned the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and started walking in the direction of the club. Johnson peeled away from his partner and walked over to a fire hydrant. It was time to test the Kel set that was strapped under his arm.
“Honk if you read me,” Johnson said, putting his foot on the fire hydrant and bending to tie his shoelace.
A horn blared.
Johnson took his foot from the hydrant and tugged at his uniform blouse to make sure that it was even all around and then faced his partner. “Come on, brother, let’s you and me earn our daily bread.”
A heavy mahogany door with large brass door knockers was at the top of the steps. Johnson lifted the knocker, looked at his partner, and rapped four times.
A tall, strikingly thin man with sculptured black hair, glossy fingernails, and an oversized bow tie that complemented large protruding ears, opened the door and motioned them inside.
“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Paul. Are you members of the Interlude?”
“I am Captain Jefferson,” Johnson lied. “And this is Capt. Jake Stern. A buddy of ours, Major Landsford, is a member of the club. He was transferred and he gave us his key. He told us that there’d be no hassle … his dues were paid for three years, he told us.”
“May I have the key, please,” the maître d’ said.
Unruffled, Johnson handed it to him.
“Please wait here, gentlemen.” The maître d’ turned and walked over to a door that was to the right of the hatcheck cubicle. He opened the door and entered, clicking it closed behind him. He went to the filing cabinet by the window and opened it to the L’s. He pulled out Landsford’s file. Each member’s file had statements relating to the member’s sexual preference and personal proclivities, and special instructions on how the member was to be treated. Landsford’s file told a story of a fun-loving army officer who enjoyed spending an evening with the ladies. Fortunately, the file also gave instructions that Landsford and any of his army friends were to be given the run of the club and extended every consideration. He closed the file, returned it to its place, and slid the drawer closed.
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