One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  “I’ll tell you this much. Play ball and I’ll guarantee you an unabridged exclusive. Could get you a Pulitzer.”

  Fine smacked his lips. He took the olive out of his glass and plopped it into his mouth. “Did I ever tell you about this chick I met in McBain’s. She was the best blow job this side of the Mississippi.”

  They were naked in bed, exploring each other. She was big-boned with strong, firm legs and sagging breasts. Three cats were perched atop a fiberboard wardrobe next to the bed. An Abyssinian, a Rex, and a Havana brown. Tails coiled, the cats stared down with yellow and green snake eyes at the lovers. The apartment was a scuzz affair with old newspapers and bags filled with clothes scattered about. And the place most definitely reeked of cat piss.

  Stern wasted no time. After what he considered an appropriate waiting period, he made his play.

  Helen McGlade was receptive.

  She was breathing in deep heaves, almost grunts. That consuming passion that caused her to do horrible things was coming. To scream, curse. She loved it when her body was wasted by a ferocity that was beyond her control. She pulled from his embrace and started to kiss him, her tongue moving over his flabby body, gnawing at the folds of skin. She lifted his testicles into her mouth, sucking them ravenously. Then she pushed his penis down and embraced the underside with her lips, moving up and down the hardness, flicking the velvet skin with her tongue. And then she took him deep into her mouth, sucking him.

  He was lost in the rapture of the moment. There were no thoughts, no problems, only pleasure. From deep within his body he could feel the beginning eruption. He clamped her head to him. She broke his grip by pushing his arms aside. She leaped up, rolling onto her back. Her legs were up in the air, far apart. “I want you inside of me. Hard. Now.”

  He hopped between her legs and rammed his erectness into her wet body. She went wild. Her body undulated forcefully, pumping him with hard methodical grinds. And then the horror began. Without warning her powerful legs scissored him at the waist, locking at the feet. He was clamped in a vise grip. She squeezed. The air was forced from his lungs. Her fists sprang for the sides of the bed and began pounding his back. Pain blanketed his shoulders and spread downward. He gagged, gasping for air. “You’re crushing me.” He frantically tried to extricate himself. He was screaming. The pain was awful. She continued to pound his back. He collapsed on top of her. Prostrated. Helpless. She laced her hands together and beat him. She screamed. Her pelvis rammed him. She screamed once more and then went limp, her body spent by the force of orgasm. “Did you come?” she murmured.

  He shot up, choking, gasping. “No … I … didn’t … come.… How … could … I? You … were … beating … the … shit … out … of … me.”

  “I love doing it that way. Passionate. Hard.” She started to stroke his wet head. “You’re quite a man. I’ve never known anyone like you.”

  Her adulation inflated his ego, dissipating the pain. “Well, it’s just that I’ve never known a woman as passionate as you.”

  “Lie back. I’ll make it up to you.”

  She saw the look of concern. “I’ll be gentle. I promise.” She pushed him down and started to lick his body. When he was hard she took him into her mouth. The cats watched, purring. Any lingering fears were swept away. He reached down, guiding her head. Her pace quickened, sucking him in rapid, hard jerks. “I love it,” she screamed.

  Oh, my God. She’s getting hot again, he thought, glancing down at her.

  She glared up at him, her face contorted. “I want you to come in my mouth.” She threw herself against his thigh and bit him. At the same time her hand vised his penis, squeezing. He howled in pain. His hands banged her head.

  “You’re killing me.” He pulled her hair in a desperate attempt to drag her away from him. One hand tugged at her thumb. “My cock! You’re breaking my cock!” With great effort he was able to free himself from her painful clutches. His penis was limp and very sore. His leg throbbed pain and there were two red crescent marks where she had bitten him. He was almost off the bed when it flew by. For a split second he did not know what it was. Then the Abyssinian’s claws furrowed his groin. His screams richocheted off the walls. He grabbed the cat by the neck and heaved it across the room. Then he ran from the bedroom gathering his clothes and dashing naked out into the seedy hallway.

  Never again, he swore, driving home in agony, trying desperately to conjure up a reasonable excuse to account for the teeth marks, bruises, and scratches that marred his body.

  13

  TUESDAY, June 30

  Malone watched a group of joggers round the track. The man whom he had come to see led the pack, his proud jaw stabbing the space in front of him. He had a high, smooth forehead and deep-set eyes guarded by bushy black eyebrows. His ears had great black tufts sprouting from them. His gray hair was cut military style.

  Malone draped his arms over the fence and watched the runner’s legs scissor the track with mechanical precision. Though the leader was older than the others, none was able to pass him. Was that due to lack of stamina or fear? Assistant Chief Whitney Zangline was known as a man of iron discipline. He had spent the last ten years molding the Special Operation Division, SOD, into the tactical strike force of the NYPD.

  When Zangline assumed command of SOD there were three units under its umbrella. He methodically absorbed the mobile and tactical units within the department. “We’re the Job’s Rapid Deployment Force,” he once told a newspaperwoman who was doing a piece for a Sunday supplement.

  Zangline refused to socialize within the Job and never attended department functions. He had managed to circumvent the department’s normal chain of command and report directly to the PC.

  The SOD compound, in a desolate part of Flushing Meadow Park, and surrounded by high fences and deep underbrush, was patrolled around the clock. The only entrance was manned by motorcycle men. After Malone left the Hamilton House he telephoned the SOD compound and requested an appointment to see the chief. He made the call from Sol Epstein’s third-floor office when he dropped off the shavings he had removed from Stanislaus’s apartment. He asked the pathologist to compare them with the scrapings that were found under Eisinger’s nails and cautioned Epstein not to mention it to anyone. The scrapings had been obtained by black-bag methods and could not be used in court. If they matched, Malone would have to invent some probable cause and apply for a search warrant.

  Zangline put on a sudden burst of speed and trotted over to where he was standing. He snapped a towel from the fence and wiped his neck and face, watching him. “Lieutenant Malone?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Come with me,” he said authoritatively.

  Radio cars and Emergency Service vans were precision parked in front of the headquarters building. Zangline led Malone directly to his spacious office. Trophies won by various SOD units crammed each shelf. Zangline told him to wait while he showered and changed. Malone stood in front of the cabinets. There were framed photographs of Zangline shaking hands with President Carter, the mayor, and the governor. Even one with the cardinal. He studied the man in the flowing silk robe and wide red sash. Pompous prick, he thought, moving off. Four separate piles of reports were on the desk. He started to rummage through them but resisted his impulse and moved away from the desk. The SOD logo emblazoned one wall. Malone had done his homework before he came. Zangline commanded a small army. All Marine, Mounted, Aviation, Tactical Patrol, Emergency Service, and Anticrime units were under the SOD umbrella. Most of the structural changes that had occurred within the Job in the last three years had a direct bearing on SOD functions. Every Emergency Service truck in the city now carried two thousand rounds of 38-caliber ammunition, shotguns and AR-15s with scopes with nighttime capabilities, and tear gas and concussion grenades. SOD was the perfect place to hide forty cops.

  Zangline came out of the dressing room in the tailored uniform of an assistant chief of the department. Malone focused on the two gilt stars on his shou
lders.

  “What can we do for you, Lieutenant?” Zangline said, walking to his desk.

  Malone felt uneasy. He had heard that voice before. “I’m endeavoring to locate three officers whom I have reason to believe might be assigned to your command.”

  Zangline was watching him. “Why do you want these men?”

  “It has to do with an investigation my squad is conducting.”

  Zangline started to roll a pencil over the desk. “I take it then that you’re not from IAD.”

  He nodded.

  “If you locate these men are you prepared to give them Miranda or GO 15?”

  “No I’m not.”

  Zangline doodled. “Tell me their names.”

  “Edwin Bramson, Joseph Stanislaus, and Charles Kelly.”

  Zangline pointed the pencil at him and said, “None of them are assigned to SOD.” He threw the pencil down and leaned back, watching him.

  “Isn’t it possible that you’re …”

  “… Lieutenant. I know every man assigned to my command.”

  “But perhaps?” He raised his palms and let them fall.

  “There are no perhapses in SOD. But to put your mind to rest …”

  He snapped forward, yanking out the top drawer of his desk. “Here is an up-to-date roster of all personnel assigned.”

  Malone flipped the pages, glancing up and down the neatly typed column of names. There was no Bramson, Stanislaus, or Kelly. His mouth went dry. He looked at the chief and placed the roster on the desk.

  He knew where he had heard that authoritative voice. He calmly got up and left.

  A door opened and Bramson, Westy Stanislaus, and Kelly entered the room.

  Zangline stared at them. “You heard?”

  “We heard,” Stanislaus said, going over to the window and watching Malone walking toward the SOD parking lot.

  Bramson rubbed his chin. “Anderman told Mannelli that he thinks we should hit Malone.”

  Kelly said, “The problem with that is that neither Anderman nor Mannelli know what is really going down.”

  Shea Stadium loomed in front of him, a silent colossus with fluttering banners. Malone sped the department auto across the empty parking field, heading for the bank of telephones next to the press gate. He left the motor running and the transmission in park, and got out, fishing in his pocket for a dime.

  “Chief Zangline, please,” Malone said to the impersonal voice who answered the SOD switchboard.

  “The chief is busy on another line.”

  “I’ll hold.” The glass panels of the booth were smashed. Names flared in black over the shiny shelf. Empty beer bottles and a used sanitary napkin were on the floor. More urban rococo. He tucked the receiver under his chin and lit a cigarette, his stare wandering the parking field. A few cars were parked next to the press gate. A bumper sticker caught his eye: SAVE A MOUSE, EAT A PUSSY. He laughed.

  “I can put you through now.”

  “This is Chief Zangline.”

  Malone held the mouthpiece close. “I recognized your voice, Captain Madvick.” He dropped the receiver onto the hook.

  Zangline tore the phone from his ear and stared at it, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. He looked slowly away and stared blankly at Stanislaus. “Do Malone. Use Marku’s friends from Atlantic Avenue and make it look like an accident.”

  “Malone is not the kind of man you catch off guard. He’s going to have to be finessed into his grave,” Stanislaus said.

  “I don’t care how you do it. Just do it. And there is something else that needs to be discussed. I got a call from Thea Braxton today. She and her brother think that they’re worth more money, a lot more money. She insinuated that we”—he waved his hand at them—“are in a precarious position and should see to it that we don’t make enemies, keep our friends.”

  Stanislaus, Bramson, and Kelly looked at one another and then each broke into smiles. They were going to enjoy the next few days.

  14

  WEDNESDAY, July 1 … Morning

  Malone, Heinemann, Stern, dressed in prison denim, stared out the barred windows of the Department of Corrections bus. The bus threw up a cloud of dust as it lumbered along, and veered to avoid potholes. It jerked to a complete stop inches from the gate of the NYPD’s outdoor range, in front of a large red warning sign that read: STOP, POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY, SHOW SHIELD AND I.D. A guardhouse was just inside the gate, and beyond that a parking field that was terraced into three sections by old telephone poles.

  A restricted-duty police officer, his face scarred from the ravages of alcoholism, stepped from the guardhouse and ambled over to the gate. Raising himself up on the balls of his feet, he studied the sullen prisoners inside the bus. Shrugging as if to say No one tells me nothing, he unchained the gate and stepped back.

  The NYPD’s outdoor range was on a secluded tip of Pelham Bay Park. Five ranges built on the water’s edge surrounded by high mountains of dirt; barriers to protect boaters in Eastchester Bay from stray shots. Ranges A through D could accommodate fifty shooters at a time; Range E had moving targets and was used for combat and barricade shooting. Alongside E range were the kennels where the department’s narcotic- and explosive-sniffing dogs were housed. In the interior of the compound was an explosives range where deadly devices were detonated and a Hollywood-type street where policemen role-played combat situations.

  Malone had felt a twinge of guilt lying to his boyhood friend, Tom McCauley. They had grown up together in the old neighborhood, went to the same schools, played on the same teams, screwed the same baby-sitters. McCauley joined Corrections a year after Malone became a cop. McCauley was now the assistant warden of Rikers Island, the city’s correctional facility.

  Housekeeping duties at the range were done by trusties from Rikers. They arrived each day at 8:00 A.M. and left at 4:00 P.M. This was the one glaring weakness that Malone had discovered when he studied the range’s security system. The perimeter was constantly patrolled by men in jeeps. Attack dogs roamed free at night. The bunkers were wired with alarms. Department helicopters flew over at irregular intervals, their powerful searchlights slicing through the night and sweeping the land. But every weekday a busload of prisoners arrived to pick up the garbage and police the brass. With nerve and the right disguise he just might brazen his way inside. He had paid a visit to Tom McCauley. “Need a favor, ol’ buddy. A prison bus and some uniforms. For a tail job,” he had told McCauley.

  Starling Johnson parked the bus in front of A range. The cramped walkways were made of packed dirt; the gutters, uneven files of painted stones. A few skimpy trees shaded the outdoor eating area which had several seldom-used picnic tables. Most men elected to make the four-minute drive to City Island because alcoholic beverages were not permitted on the range. Someone once said that guns and booze don’t mix but most cops don’t believe it.

  A group of range instructors were standing in front of Classroom 3 discussing the latest model Colt. A combat masterpiece, one of them called it.

  The detectives left the bus and separated. Each one was to look around on his own. They pulled their denim hats over their eyes. There was a chance one of them might be recognized.

  A group of men were lounging in front of Classroom 2. They were dressed in threadbare clothes and had gunbelts strapped around their waists. Goggles hung from their gun handles. Malone had counted thirty-one men when an instructor appeared in the doorway and motioned the class inside. On his haunches, pretending to realign the stones of the gutter, Malone worked his way toward Classroom 2. He moved slowly, not wanting to call attention to himself. Three prisoners were sitting next to a Quonset hut, killing time and sharing a cigarette. He met their eyes, then let his gaze drift slowly away, just another prisoner minding his own business. He moved to the next stone.

  The double doors of the classroom were open. His leg muscles were starting to ache. When he reached the doorway he glanced into the classroom and recoiled, looking quickly away. A range instruct
or was lecturing the class. His khakis were tailored and a .38 Colt, in a quick-draw holster, hugged his right hip. Two men were sitting on a metal folding table behind him. One was a big, blond man with fair skin and wavy hair. The other man was David Ancorie, Yachov Anderman’s trusted associate.

  While the instructor lectured on the use of deadly physical force, Ancorie and the other man sat patiently, legs swinging over the side of the table.

  Malone turned his back to the open door and moved past on his haunches. Pretending to concentrate on work, he made his way around to the side of the Quonset hut. He slumped to the ground with his back against the corrugated shell. He stretched out his legs in front and lit a cigarette. Just another trusty on another self-imposed break. An open window was inches above his head. He could hear clearly. Heinemann and Stern rounded Classroom 3 and saw him. They moseyed over, pausing at discreet distances to police the area.

  They sat on either side of him. “Anything?” Heinemann whispered.

  “Shhh. Listen,” Malone said.

  The instructor was lecturing. “Gentlemen, I am now going to read to you Section Thirty-five-point-thirty, paragraph two, of the Criminal Procedure Law: ‘The fact that a police officer is justified in using deadly physical force under circumstances prescribed in these paragraphs does not constitute justification for reckless conduct by such police officer amounting to an offense against or with respect to innocent persons whom he is not seeking to arrest or retain in custody.’”

  The lawbook was slapped closed.

  An echo reverberated through the half-empty classroom.

  Malone visualized the instructor scanning the faces of his students, getting ready to drive home his point.

  “In other words, gentlemen, if you open up at high noon on Madison and Five-three in an attempt to apprehend a perp who just blew away the pope and all the saints and in the process kill a junkie who was nodding by”—a long pause for effect—“your ass, gentlemen, would be in a whooooole lot of trouble.”