One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  “Why did you go into hiding after St. James was killed?”

  “Because I didn’t want to get involved and because I wanted time to assess the situation and try to find out what the hell was happening.”

  “Were the Braxtons with you?”

  “Of course not. I know nothing about them.”

  Malone did not speak right away. He measured his adversary. “You’re a very convincing man, Anderman.”

  “The truth speaks for itself.”

  “Bullshit. Keep it simple and stick as close to the truth as possible. That’s the rule in your business, isn’t it?”

  “I’m telling you the truth. Everything I know.”

  “Really? Why would anyone go to the trouble to get the list of warehouses? For what purpose?”

  Anderman raised his palms and then let them drop. “I don’t know. I guess if their existence in this country became known it could be embarrassing for Washington. The United States is trying to obtain bases in the Middle East for the Rapid Deployment Force; a special relationship has been fostered with Riyadh. Perhaps”—he waved his hand in the air—“there are endless possibilities.”

  Malone fixed him with a stare as Anderman lit another cigarette. He was ready to ask about cops and Captain Madvick. “Ever hear of a Captain Madvick?”

  Anderman exhaled smoke. “No.”

  “What is the Unit?”

  “I don’t know, policeman.”

  “Who is Westy? Is he a cop?”

  Anderman was no longer the harried, angry businessman. After a long pause, Anderman said, “Malone. I know nothing of any policemen, any Unit, or Captain Madvick. I have enough problems of my own without getting involved in any of yours.” He arched his shoulders back. “I’m telling you the truth. You are relying on the delirium of a semiconscious woman. That is not a clever move, policeman.”

  He’s good, Malone concluded. Lies with the aplomb of a cop or a politician. Looking directly into the face in front of him, Malone thought, You’re giving me a handjob, Anderman. An intelligence agent in the Mossad falling for a guy and you can’t find out who this guy is? In a pig’s prick.

  Malone said, “How did you know that Eisinger had stolen back the list?”

  “She telephoned. I told her that I’d come right over to her apartment, but she insisted that I come in the morning. I asked her who was behind it and she refused to tell me over the phone. She said that she would explain in the morning. She was murdered that night.”

  “Did she sound nervous when she talked to you?”

  “No. She sounded relaxed. If I had thought she was in any danger I’d have rushed right to her apartment.”

  Malone remained with him for another hour. It was not easy distinguishing the truth from the lies. But Malone was patient. He was determined to break this one.

  As Malone was getting up to leave, Anderman leaned forward and grabbed his wrist. “I’m sure you’ll not repeat anything that we just discussed. I’d find it most unpleasant if I had to …”

  Malone pulled his arm away. “Top of the day to ya, Anderman.”

  “Shalom, policeman.”

  When Malone was gone Anderman went over to the wall and pounded it in a paroxysm of anger and frustration. When he had calmed down he picked up the telephone on his desk.

  It rang about fifteen times before being answered. Anderman spoke. “This is an emergency. John Harrison Burke in three hours.”

  The person on the other end clicked off.

  Within the three hours Yachov Anderman was standing on the bow of the Circle Line boat watching the panorama of Manhattan Island unfold. He had made the trip to the Statue of Liberty, trudged up the shoulder-wide spiral to the crown, circled the narrow platform to ensure no one was following, and was now returning to keep his appointment.

  The boat was crowded with Chinese tourists dressed in drab clothes and with Japanese cameras slung over their shoulders; Germans, Latins, English, French, and Americans. When the boat docked he waited until most of the passengers had disembarked and then strolled off the gangplank. He walked on the promenade and stared into the choppy waters. When he reached the red buildings of Marine Company I he stopped and examined the fire boat, still watching to see if he was followed. He abruptly turned and walked through Battery Park until he came to the West Battery where he slowly made his way around the circular fort.

  He moved off, walking along a winding path until he came to a crescent-shaped monument site. Two benches were set against an iron fence. Bags, beer cans, aluminum foil, Big Mac boxes were piled up along the bottom of the fence. Clumps of grass and weeds had sprouted up between the chipped plates in the ground. He strolled around the column reading the plaques: Erected in memory of wireless operators lost at sea at the post of duty: David Staier, SS Mezada, 3/2/22, North Atlantic; Jack Phillips, SS Titanic, 4/5/12, Atlantic. He moved slowly, taking his time, surveying the surrounding area.

  Fifty feet away another monument site had been established to commemorate American heroes of both wars who now sleep in the American coastal waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The site had eight massive steles with thousands of names carved in alphabetical order. Four steles were on each side of the site, and in the center, on a pedestal of black, reigned an American bald eagle, its black talons cocked. Anderman spotted the person whom he was to meet standing in front of the first stele, glancing up at the column. He walked up behind the person. “John Harrison Burke, Seaman First Class, U.S.N., Virginia.”

  Lt. Joe Mannelli glanced over his shoulder. “What the hell is so goddamn important for you to risk this meeting?”

  “Malone knows about the warehouses. He also has an inkling about the Unit.”

  “Balls!” Mannelli said, toeing the monument.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  Anderman told him of his meeting with Malone.

  “Do you think he’s onto us?” Mannelli asked.

  “I’m not sure. I told him enough to sound convincing, but I don’t know how much of it he believed or what else he knows.”

  Mannelli rubbed his tired eyes. Anderman moved close to him.

  “He has to be eliminated,” Anderman whispered.

  “Whataya mean eliminated? Fa’ Chrissake, he’s a cop. We don’t kill our own.”

  “That man is a danger.”

  “We don’t kill him! So he found out about the warehouses. No big deal. Everything is deniable. You hear me, deniable. You do nothing. I’ll tell my people what happened and get back to you,” Mannelli said, turning and walking away.

  A bebopper skated past Anderman. He was a black man and he was wearing a dashiki and had a radio headset on. He adjusted his sunglasses as he danced past.

  12

  MONDAY, June 29

  “What time do ya make it?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  Bo Davis was slumped behind the wheel, his hands limp over the inside post. He stretched, looking at his watch. “Five thirty-four.”

  “Gettin’ up at four in the morning in order to plant on some cop’s house sucks.”

  “It’s all part of the J-O-B.” Davis closed his eyes.

  “Ya hear what happened to Crazy Eyes McCormick?”

  Davis squint-eyed. “What?”

  “The asshole had his load on and turned Saint Pat’s into a shooting gallery. Some Rican pickpocket lifted eight bucks from some broad’s bag. McCormick opened up on the guy inside the church. He misses the Rican and ended up blowing away sixty grand worth of statues and stained-glass windows. The Powerhouse wanted his balls sautéed and left on the altar as penance.”

  Davis grunted. “That guy could fuck up a wet dream.”

  At 7:46 A.M. a man left 21 Woodchuck Pond Lane and opened the garage door. He was a bruiser who stood six-five and had large hands, big feet, and shoulders that looked like a dam. The detectives were parked a block away.

  The man backed the car out of the garage and stopped. He got out and went to close the door. As he bent down to close the door his Hawaii
an shirt rode up in back. On his right hip was a holster with a thin leather strap securing the gun in place. Equipment Bureau issue. They had found Edwin Bramson, formerly of the Six-six precinct.

  He opened his eyes and sensed unfamiliar surroundings. He lay naked in a bed with fresh sheets. He recognized the jade-green wallpaper. He saw his trousers crumpled over a chair. On the floor were a pair of panties and a bra. He remembered their rush into bed. He poked his hand behind and felt her. He turned over.

  Last night he had decided that Erica epitomized the perfect woman: beautiful, intelligent, tantalizing. In his own mind he still was not completely sure what he wanted from her. Lately he found himself wanting to be with her, to share with her. And last night, he had talked about his ex-wife again and had found himself beginning to understand his part in the failure of the marriage. It was a beginning.

  He kissed her lightly on the temple and got up. Anderman was coming for the list of warehouses sometime this afternoon, and he wanted to be there when he arrived.

  The first thing Erica saw when she opened her eyes was Malone dressed only in briefs, balancing on one leg, and tugging a sock up over his calf.

  “Good morning,” she purred, stretching.

  “I tried not to wake you.”

  She patted the space next to her. He came over and sat on the edge. She pushed herself up. The sheet clung to her body, large aureoles half-moons over the edge.

  She said, “I’m glad you came by last night.”

  He kissed her on the nose. “So am I.”

  “I enjoyed the things we did. The way you …” She felt the flush come to her cheeks.

  “You’re blushing.”

  She blocked his view with her hands. “You’re not supposed to look.”

  The sheet plummeted, revealing firm breasts. He bent forward, taking one into his mouth, sucking it. She lay back and touched his lips. “Quickies count, too.”

  Edwin Bramson drove a battered Ford with a broken left taillight. The snow tires were still on. A bumper sticker read: GUNS DON’T KILL … PEOPLE DO.

  Motorists stared blankly ahead as they inched through the heavy traffic. Bramson stayed in the middle lane. Not once did he bother to check the rearview. The sign of an overconfident man.

  At the Lakeville Road exit of the Northern State Parkway, Bramson drove off onto the feeder road and cruised to a stop alongside a bank of telephone kiosks. He reached over and pushed open the door. A man trotted over and slid into the passenger seat. He was a big man with a large head and a torso that ballooned from the neck and gathered into a tiny waist. No hair was visible on his body. Although he appeared bulky, the man moved with grace and suppleness.

  Overhead the WABC traffic helicopter skirted the parkway.

  O’Shaughnessy nudged his partner. “Did you see the shape on that guy?”

  “I wouldn’t wanna have to lock assholes with either one of them,” Davis said.

  Bramson left the parkway at the westbound Queens Boulevard exit. He drove north. At Yellowstone Boulevard he made a left turn and continued two blocks, stopping in front of an apartment house—the Hamilton.

  A man stepped from the lobby and got into the rear seat. He had a ruggedly handsome face and blond wavy hair. Unlike the other passengers, this man was particularly well groomed, wearing a blue summer suit and a quiet patterned tie.

  The Doric Diner was crowded.

  The three men decided on an empty booth next to the long counter.

  They talked in whispers, leaning across the table. A waitress came over to take their orders. When she left, the man in the suit took out a handful of change and played the small jukebox that was affixed to the side of the booth.

  O’Shaughnessy went directly over to the counter and sat on a stool. His jacket and tie were in the car. The right side of his shirt was bloused, concealing the handle of his .38 S & W. When the counterman looked his way he ordered coffee and a toasted corn muffin. Elbows on counter, he leaned forward, staring at the reflections in the display case, straining to pick up snatches of conversation from the booth to his right. Someone roared with laughter. He thought it was the weirdo with the watermelon head. Was a guy with that shape really on the Job? A cowboy blared from the jukebox; he had met a lady in tight-fittin’ jeans. Whenever the music would stop the guy in the suit would feed the box. O’Shaughnessy ordered a second cup and asked for the bill. The three men remained twenty-two minutes and then struggled out of the cramped booth.

  Bramson left the tip.

  O’Shaughnessy left nothing. He’d never see the hump again.

  O’Shaughnessy lingered, examining his check and searching his pocket for change. He ambled up to the cashier. They were ahead of him, each paying a third. Watermelon-head paid his share and turned to Bramson, poking him. “We got the range on Wednesday and then we weed out and we’re all set to go.”

  The man in the suit whirled. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Hey, Westy? There ain’t no one here …”

  The man in the suit talked through clenched teeth. “I told you to …”

  Watermelon-head held up his hands. “Okay. Okay. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

  The day started officially for Malone when he walked into the squad room and looked up at the clock. That was some quickie, he thought. It was 9:37 A.M. He adjusted his watch as he walked into his office. Davis and O’Shaughnessy were waiting to report the results of their stakeout.

  Malone asked, “Are you sure that he called him Westy?”

  “Positive,” O’Shaughnessy said. “I was standing right behind them.”

  “What happened after they left the diner?” Malone asked.

  Davis looked at his partner who shrugged. Malone caught the exchange. “What happened?”

  “We tailed them to the SOD compound in Flushing Meadow,” Davis said.

  Malone slapped the desk. “Oh Christ!” He leaned back, steepling his fingers.

  The silence grew.

  The other men watched him, trying to figure out what Malone was thinking. When he finally spoke, his dispirited tone revealed his misgivings. “What about the guy Bramson picked up in Queens?”

  O’Shaughnessy said, “After they entered the compound we hightailed it back to Yellowstone Boulevard. He lives in the Hamilton House. His name is Joseph Stanislaus; he’s divorced and has lived there for two years.”

  Malone took out the list of transferred cops. Edwin Bramson, Joseph Stanislaus, Charles Kelly. All from the Six-six; all transferred in the same Personnel Order; friends who went into something big. He assumed the man from Lakeville Road was Charles Kelly. Malone yelled out to Stern to bring him the teletypes for the past twenty-four hours. Stern walked in with the gray posted binder with the thin multiholed pages compressed between the covers. He asked Stern if there were any notifications concerning the range and watched anxiously as the detective slowly turned each page. They at last had three names to work on. But he was bemused because they were cops and concerned because he did not know how or why they were involved.

  Stern stabbed a page with his finger. “Here is something. Transmitted 0130 hours yesterday.” He read. “The regular outdoor shooting cycle scheduled for this Wednesday is canceled. Members who were scheduled to shoot on that date will be rescheduled by roll call.” He looked at the lieutenant. “That’s it.”

  Lacing his hands across his chest, Malone leaned back and recalled Harrigan’s earlier visit. The sergeant had been anxious to tell him the results of the canvass of precinct watering holes. O’Brien had spent the better part of a four-to-four drinking with cops from the Six-six and bullshitting about the Job, the lousy contract that the PBA had just negotiated with the City, the injustice of pay parity with firemen, and women.

  Fort Surrender’s watering hole was Jerry’s, a sleazy blue-collar joint that was tucked away under the Brighton line’s elevated Utica Avenue station.

  O’Brien had latched onto a tipsy Anticrime cop from the Six-six. Every cop in the precinct
knew about Stanislaus, Bramson, and Kelly, the Anticrime cop had told O’Brien. “Chrissake, those three guys are legends.” He told O’Brien that they were assigned to the precinct’s Anticrime Unit. They turned out to be a no-nonsense team who took no shit in the street. Stanislaus was the team’s brains. He could con the spots off a leopard. Stanislaus had served in a Special Forces unit in Vietnam that operated behind enemy lines. The others in the unit found out one night when they were drinking that Stanislaus thought General Westmoreland was the greatest thing since Alexander, and tagged him with the nickname Westy. He had been on two sergeants’ lists but had never been promoted.

  He felt the Supreme Court of the United States, Affirmative Action, and the Department of Personnel were responsible. Blacks, Hispanics, and women who had failed the written test were placed on the lists ahead of Stanislaus because of those damn affirmative-action suits. Both lists ran their normal four-year life and died with his name still on them.

  Charles Kelly, the Anticrime cop had told O’Brien, was an ugly brute who enjoyed inflicting pain. He liked to slap nippers around a prisoner’s wrist and twist until his victim was groveling in pain. He was also an avid gun collector who was reputed to have a valuable collection of Nazi military small arms.

  Bramson was a psycho son-of-a-bitch who drank too much and was ecumenical in his dislikes: he hated just about everything and everybody. When he was in the army, Bramson had been assigned to the military police battalion at Leavenworth. His lumbering walk and chilling brutality sent fear through prisoners and guards alike.

  Each of them was morose and brooding. They never mixed with other cops. But when they were together they came alive, each one garnering strength from the other. They drank and carried on outrageously.

  They had an incredible arrest record, but it was abnormally full of violence and death. Every cop in Brooklyn South knew of their arrests. Once, two escaping muggers were killed accidentally by falling from a roof. A witness in the adjoining building told the Homicide detectives that she had seen both of the dead men being thrown off. She later denied making that statement. The grapevine had it that Kelly and Bramson had a private little chat with the lady.