One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  Malone looked at Zambrano. “Forty cops have been buried in the Job.”

  Zambrano stopped and faced him. “Dan? How do we put men in deep cover?”

  “We transfer them to some administrative or support unit and they disappear. All their records are removed and locked up in a safe in the Identification Section. Their names are expunged from the city record and their salaries are paid by other city agencies or deposited in cash directly into blind checking accounts.”

  “So?” Zambrano demanded, displaying a growing exasperation.

  “What do you mean, so? We’re talking about forty bodies. I’ll bet you there aren’t ten cops in the entire department in deep cover. Those telephone calls from Captain Madvick and those three cops walking into that restaurant with Sara Eisinger form a direct link with my murder and the Job. Someone is using cops for something that’s not kosher, someone at the top.”

  Zambrano walked away from him, staring ahead, his cheeks crimson.

  Malone remained in place, watching. The inspector went about ten feet and then turned, motioning him to follow.

  They strolled through the plaza, each man a prisoner of his own thoughts. When they reached the archway of the Municipal Building, Zambrano veered to his left and walked over to a small monument that had rusted bars set into it. He bent forward, trying to make out the withered plaque: Prison window of the Sugar House, 1765. Used by the British during the Revolutionary War to detain patriots.

  Zambrano straightened. “Did you know that I lost my older brother on Guadalcanal?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I always fancied retiring from the Job as a chief.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m not going to make it. Tell me how I can help.”

  “I’m going to need some more time. That means keeping Harrigan and his men longer. In addition, I’ll need someone upstairs to nose around and at the same time keep the hounds off my ass.”

  Zambrano put an arm around his shoulder, turning him and leading him away. “Did I ever tell you about my very first tour on the Job?”

  Malone walked into his office and called in Davis and O’Shaughnessy. He handed Davis a piece of paper containing the names of the forty cops. “All these guys are on the Job. And they’ve all been buried somewhere in the department. I want you two to find them.”

  Davis and O’Shaughnessy looked incredulously at each other.

  O’Shaughnessy spoke first. “What’s it about?”

  Malone lowered himself onto the edge of the desk and told them of the Fort Surrender T-shirt and his visit to the Six-six.

  O’Shaughnessy looked over the names on the paper and said, “How are we going to locate these guys?”

  “I don’t think that the person or persons who buried them also went to the trouble to wipe out their personal lives. My guess is that most of them are married-type people who reside within the City or the nearby suburbs.” He popped off the desk and went to the library cabinet where he removed the Patrol Guide. After consulting the rear index, he flipped clumps of pages of the massive loose leaf to the front. “Here we are,” he said. “Procedure one-oh-four-dash-one; page four of six pages; Residence Requirements. Members of the force will reside within the City of New York or Westchester, Rockland, Orange, Putnam, Nassau, or Suffolk counties.”

  O’Shaughnessy whistled a sigh. “That’s one helluva tall job.”

  “Not really,” Malone said. “I think you should find some of them without too much difficulty. Go over the list and select names that are not common.” He took the list from O’Shaughnessy. “Here, Edwin Bramson from the Six-six. Check the telephone directories for each county for that name. You’re bound to find some of them. When you do, note the address and then pay a discreet visit to their neighborhood. Ask questions. Once you’ve established that they’re on the Job, it’s just a question of sitting on their homes one morning and following them to work. I’ve got a feeling once you’ve located one of them, you’ll find the rest. Remember one very important thing. They’re cops; don’t get careless; give them a long leash. I don’t want you being made.”

  Fifteen minutes later the detectives were gathered around a desk in the squad room poring through telephone directories. Jake Stern walked by on his way to the file cabinet to put away a case folder. He bent and whispered to O’Shaughnessy. “How is Foam?”

  “Knocked-up,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  The detectives looked up.

  “Oh, that’s ducky. Are you and the wife planning a big wedding?” Starling Johnson asked.

  “Don’t be fucking funny. I got enough problems,” O’Shaughnessy snapped.

  “What happened?” Davis asked.

  “The fucking foam didn’t work, that’s what happened,” O’Shaughnessy said. “She’s been calling me for days. I thought that she just needed to be serviced. I went to see her last night. She met me at the door full of love and kisses. I took her into the bedroom, took off her cotton drawers, and threw her a hump. ‘Don’t leave,’ she says after I dropped my load. ‘Come out naturally,’ she says. I’m on top of her trying to figure what train I got to catch to get home when she starts to ask me if I really meant all them things that I told her”—he waved a hand in front of him—“you know, that bullshit about a lasting relationship in the distant, distant future.”

  “And?” Jake Stern said.

  “And she told me she’s late and the rabbit died,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  “And?” Davis said.

  “And I asked her if she was sure,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  “And?” Johnson said.

  “And she said she was,” O’Shaughnessy answered.

  “And?” Stern asked.

  “And? What is it with you guys and this and? And nothing. She’s having a baby. That’s what’s and!”

  “Wadaya tell her?” Johnson asked.

  “I told her that I was married, had a house in Hicksville, a mortgage, and six children. I also told her that I’m a Catholic and don’t believe in divorce. Then I told her that I’d pay for the abortion.”

  “Oh, man; real smooth,” Johnson said, slapping his forehead.

  “And what did she say?” Stern asked.

  “She went nuts and threw me out of her apartment. She screamed at me, calling me a male hypocrite and ranted something about not murdering her baby.”

  Bo Davis looked up from the directory. “Here’s a Edwin Bramson, listed at 21 Woodchuck Pond, Northport.”

  “Where’s that?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “Suffolk County,” Davis said.

  9

  SATURDAY, June 20 … Morning

  McInerney’s messenger arrived in the morning. He was a large man with black shoes and a black suit that was too small and made him look like a biped mammal with a crew cut. He was one of the monsignor’s shooflys and he did not strike Malone as the type of curate who gave absolution too easily. His message was succinct: McInerney wanted to see Malone, now.

  Jake Stern parked the squad car on the west side of Madison Avenue, three blocks away. A nun dressed in the traditional habit of her order admitted them into the cardinal’s residence and led them down a sparkling hall, her hand fingering her rosary. Malone wondered what it was about rectories and churches that gave them their peculiar scent. Greenbacks and incense, he decided.

  McInerney rounded his ornately carved desk to greet them. He stepped past the detectives and held the door for the nun.

  “Thank you, sister,” he said, watching her leave. When she had gone he kicked the door closed. “They don’t make them like that anymore,” he lamented. He went to a table by the window and picked up a folder, flipping it open. He took out a sheet of white bond paper and handed it to Malone.

  “Here are your locations. You were right, they’re warehouses.”

  Malone scrutinized the paper. “Were any of your people able to get a look inside?”

  McInerney scowled. “We’re priests, not burglars.”

  You’re not? Malone th
ought. He held his own counsel and asked, “Were you able to find out anything else?”

  “They are all operated by Israelis.” McInerney regarded the lieutenant with the look of a maternal uncle.

  “What the hell are you up to, Daniel Malone?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket.

  McInerney checked his watch. He was not the kind of man who wasted time on nonproductive matters. “If there is nothing else, I’ll bid you both good day. Holy Mother Church is a hard taskmistress.”

  “Thank you, Monsignor,” Malone said, walking with him to the door. Malone stopped short and looked at the monsignor. “Do you have any connections in Tin Pan Alley?”

  McInerney looked puzzled. “We have friends all over. Why?”

  “We’re trying to locate a copy of a song. ‘The Song of Asaph.’ Ever heard of it?”

  McInerney slapped his chest and arched his back, laughing.

  “It is apparent that your religious training is somewhat wanting, Daniel.”

  Fuck you, Your Holiness, Malone thought. Aloud: “How’s that?”

  He removed a Bible from the shelf and opened it, thumbing the pages. “Here is your ‘Song of Asaph.’ The Seventy-third Psalm.” The monsignor read aloud: “‘Truly God is good to Israel, even to such as are a clean heart.’” The psalm told of God’s displeasure with his people. Of how the rich are not troubled like other men; neither are they plagued like other men. It told of how pride encompassed the rich like a chair; violence covering them like a garment. McInerney’s voice was solemn. He read how God saved the people from destruction and led them through the wilderness to safety: “‘And they sinned yet more against Him by provoking the most High in the wilderness. And they tempted God in their hearts by asking meat for their lust. In spite of all He did for them they spoke against God. They said, “Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?”’”

  The detectives listened intently. The rhapsody of horns on Madison Avenue was dispelled by the priest’s hypnotic voice. Each man was transported in his thoughts back to the days of Jacob. McInerney read how they lied unto Him with their tongues. For their heart was not right with Him, neither were they steadfast in their covenant. But He, being full of compassion, forgave their iniquity and destroyed them not; yes, many a time turned He His anger away, and did not stir up His wrath. For He remembered that they were but flesh; a wind that passes away, and cometh not again.

  McInerney closed the book and walked over to the window where he stared down at the bustling avenue. Opening the book, he repeated, “‘They were but flesh; a wind that passes away; and cometh not again.’”

  Jake Stern was thirteen again. It was Shabbas and his mother was in the kitchen lighting the Sabbath candles. His father was saying Kaddish for the dead. The smell of chicken floated back over the years and filled him with bittersweet nostalgia.

  Malone, too, was thirteen. He was standing inside a church with his mother. They were in front of the Seventh Station of the Cross. “Mom, how can God be in every church in the world at the same time?”

  McInerney stopped reading and let the Bible drop to his side.

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  Malone broke it by getting up and going to the telephone. He dialed the Squad. Heinemann answered. Malone told him to get the Eisinger Bible. The metallic clanging of the receiver being dropped resounded in Malone’s ears.

  Heinemann came back onto the line. “Got it.”

  “Turn to the Seventy-third Psalm,” Malone said.

  “Here we are,” Heinemann said, “‘Truly God is good to Israel …’”

  “Never mind reading it. See if anything is stuck between the pages or if there are any underlined passages.”

  Heinemann flipped pages, babbling as he went. “‘God put His trust’ … nothing … ‘They are corrupt’ … blab … blab blab … ‘put my trust’ … more bullshit … ‘O my people’ … bullshit … here it is! The Eighty-third Psalm. The first four are underlined in ink.”

  Malone hung up and unceremoniously took the Bible from McInerney. He turned to the Eighty-third Psalm.

  Keep not thou silence, O God: hold not thy peace, and be not still, O God.

  For, lo, thine enemies make a tumult: and they that hate thee have lifted up the head.

  They have taken crafty counsel against thy people, and consulted against the hidden one.

  They have said, Come, and let us cut them off from being a nation; that the name of Israel may be no more in remembrance.

  Malone had been closeted with Jack Harrigan for forty minutes. He had given the sergeant a “forthwith.” Malone wanted to know if he had come up with anything on Anderman or the Braxtons.

  “Nothing,” Harrigan said.

  Malone was standing by the window in his office looking out. “What about David Ancorie?” Malone asked, gawking at the tourists flowing through the street in an unending procession.

  “Ancorie and three trucks pulled out of Eastern Shipping shortly before Andrea St. James left. Your men were on the scene in the surveillance van, so my men followed him. They went to Kennedy Airport and picked up a load of sealed containers from France. One of my men questioned the customs people and was told that the containers were filled with automotive parts that were consigned to Eastern Shipping. From the airport they drove to Fort Totten. My men waited and waited. Ancorie and the trucks never left Totten. As far as we know they’re still there.”

  “Any idea what’s going on at Totten?” Malone said.

  Harrigan shook his head. “We can’t get too close. If we do, we’ll blow the whole thing.”

  Malone reached into his pocket and handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s a list of forty cops that have been transferred and the precincts they’ve been transferred from. I want one of your men to visit the watering holes of those precincts and start asking questions about those men. Tell him to play it down. You know. ‘I was in the Academy with so-and-so. How’s he been?’ Stuff like that. I want to know what kind of cops these guys are.”

  Harrigan took the list and put it into his shirt pocket.

  Malone turned and looked him in the eye. “I also want wires on the Eastern Shipping Company and the Braxtons. They might return and get stupid.”

  Harrigan leaned against the wall, bracing himself with his right foot. “We don’t have enough probable cause to go into court and ask for ex parte orders.”

  They exchanged wary looks. “This time we make our own probable cause,” Malone said.

  Harrigan nodded, pushed himself away from the wall, and left the office. Malone continued to look out the window. The sun was against it now, and because it was dirty he couldn’t see past the glass. Cigarette butts, burned matches, and dirt covered the sill. Dead flies were snarled in a cobweb between the mesh and jamb. Damn window probably hadn’t been cleaned in years, he thought. He suddenly remembered the Grayson case. It had been years since he recalled that one. Malone was a new detective in those days. Patrolman Joseph Grayson had walked the same beat for twenty-three years. He knew everyone. It was a November four-by-twelve tour when it happened. Grayson strolled into McDade’s bar and grill. The unusual occurrence report stated that he entered the license premises for personal necessity. But everyone knew that Grayson liked his ball and beer. Grayson walked into a holdup. Two punks wheeled and put five into the cop’s chest. The M.E. said Grayson never knew what hit him. Malone caught the case. It was to be his first murdered cop, not his last. The day after the killing a bird dropped a dime to the Squad. Nicky Giordano, a neighborhood punk, had bragged in a bar that he knew who blew the cop away. Malone could still recall Giordano’s swaggering arrogance in front of his friends as Malone dragged him out of the pool hall.

  “Lock the door and get his clothes off,” the squad commander said, staring at the frightened man as Malone pushed him into the squad room. Giordano was handcuffed spread-eagled to the detention cage, Michelangelo’s anatomical drawing of a man. T
he lieutenant handed Malone a Zippo lighter. “Burn the truth out of the fuck,” the lieutenant ordered. Malone’s hand shook as he approached him. One pass of the lighter under Giordano’s balls was enough. “Esposito and Conti,” he screamed. Known punks from Navy Street.

  “Take ’im down,” the squad commander ordered. Malone released him.

  “Get over here, scumbag,” the lieutenant barked.

  Giordano approached hesitatingly, his hands covering his genitals.

  “Bend over and spread your cheeks,” the squad commander snapped. Giordano hesitated. The lieutenant slapped his back, forcing the torso down. “Spread ’em!”

  Giordano reached back and spread the cheeks of his ass. The barrel of the squad commander’s revolver was rammed into Giordano’s anus. “This ain’t no prick you feel in your ass, Guinea. It’s my fuckin’ gun. You’re going to testify in court against your two friends. You’re going to get up on that stand and tell the truth. You’re also going to tell the court that we treated you like a fucking gentleman. ’Cause if you don’t, one dark night I’m going to meet you in an alley and empty this gun into your asshole.”

  Giordano got the message. He testified and Esposito and Conti went to the electric chair.

  And now, years later, Malone was a squad commander. The Grayson case was the type of a caper that he understood, knew how to deal with. But this Eisinger thing? He wondered what the common thread was that tied the whole mess together. He found himself searching the cobweb for the spider. But it was nowhere to be seen.