Another pause for effect.
“Are there any questions, gentlemen?”
A range officer made his way along the footpath heading for the latrine. He glanced at the three goofing-off prisoners and continued to his destination.
A voice bellowed from the rear of the classroom. “Hey, Westy, when are we going to get the scoop?”
For the first time Malone heard Stanislaus’s voice: “Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you what I can.” He sounded poised and confident. “After our good friend, Dave, gets done giving you his spiel, you’re going to be divided into two groups. The first group will go out to Easy range and fire the Uzi. Group two will remain here and be tested. Then the process will be reversed. ’Course, the questions we ask the first group will not be the same as those asked the second group.”
A chorus of boos went up.
Stanislaus continued. “After you’re tested you’ll be rated and ranked. When there are openings in the Unit you’ll be transferred in. In the meantime you’re to be transferred back to commands. Each one of you will get to pick your own house.”
A chorus of hoots, whistles, and applause.
“Gentlemen, you are to tell no one about the Unit. Secrecy is vital to our mission. Never discuss what you’ve learned. Not with your wife. Your girlfriend. Your confessor. Not even with your partner. Are there any questions?”
There was a long silence.
The detectives could hear shuffling from inside the classroom. Westy Stanislaus said, “Good. Now I’ll turn you over to our good friend, Dave Ancorie.”
Ancorie’s now familiar voice announced: “This, gentlemen, is a five-inch gray attaché case that is completely lined with ballistic armor. Every member of the Unit will be issued one. This particular case uses a type-C liner that is one-quarter-inch thick and will defeat, at a distance of four inches, the three-fifty-seven- or one-fifty-eight-grain jacketed cartridge. Keep it close to you. It could save your life.” He opened the case and removed a Uzi submachine gun. “You are looking at one of the finest weapons in the world. It was developed in Israel by its namesake Maj. Uzi Gal. This weapon has a cyclical rate of fire of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute. A velocity of thirteen hundred and ten feet per second. It fires nine-millimeter parabellum bullets from a detachable staggered-box magazine with three separate load capacities. Fully loaded the Uzi weighs eight-point-eight pounds. This weapon has a slide selector switch which permits single action or fully automatic bursts.” The bolt was slid back, cocking the weapon. “This weapon has almost no recoil.” The trigger was pulled and the bolt snapped forward with a clanging thud. “The front sight is a truncated cone with protecting ears. The rear sight is L shaped with sight settings for one hundred and two hundred yards.” He placed the Uzi under his right arm. “This weapon is easy to conceal on the person.” Malone heard what sounded like the weapon being put down on a table. “Now. If you will all gather around me I will show you how to clean and field strip this weapon.”
Malone nudged the detectives. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dr. Solomon Epstein used a diluted solution of gelatin when he mounted the hairs. He placed the fibers side by side on the slides so that he could study them at full length.
Leaning into the comparison microscope, he adjusted the focus. His white hospital coat was unbuttoned. He glanced up at Malone. “What do you know about hair?”
“It thins in men past twenty.”
Epstein smiled and peered into the lenses. Concentrating on the slides, he lapsed into a forensic litany. Head hair was round and curly. Torso hair was oval and kidney shaped. Beard hair was triangular, with concave sides. Hair was generally divided into three parts: the medulla, cortex, and cuticle. The medulla of human hair was narrow; the medulla of animal hair was medium or thick depending on the kind of animal. By checking a hair fiber against the Medullary Index a pathologist can determine if the specimen is human or animal and what part of the body it originated from.
Epstein pushed away from the table. “Take a look.”
Malone straddled the white adjustable stool and lowered himself. The doctor looked over his shoulder. “Notice that the air network is a fine grain. The network in animal hair is formed in sacs. You are looking at human hair. The fibers on the left slide were taken from Eisinger’s fingernails. Notice how the shaft is broken around the root. If you look close you will be able to see the longitudinal splits around the shaft.”
Malone had a wry look on his face. “Which all means?”
“It means that Eisinger tore those hairs from someone’s face. Most probably her killer’s.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Both slides contain beard hair of a male, Caucasian. A man with a heavy beard and blond wavy hair.”
Malone stood. He plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled around the room. He stopped in front of a specimen case. Epstein’s reflection was in the paneled glass. He was staring at him, a smug smile on his hawklike face. Glass shelves were filled with jars containing human organs.
A brain had pins sticking out of it. Little tags were attached to the ends. Right and left cerebral hemisphere. Right and left frontal lobe. The infoldings of the gray mass seemed intertwined in an insoluble puzzle.
“Doc, I have the million-dollar question for you,” Malone said.
“You want to know if the hairs on both slides are from the same man,” Epstein said, moving to the specimen case.
Malone turned to face him. “Are they?”
“The best I can give you is a definite maybe. The hairs do have the same microscopic characteristics and in my opinion could have come from the same individual.”
Malone’s disappointment was obvious.
Epstein said, “Hair fibers are not positive like fingerprints. They’re circumstantial evidence. You go and bring in your killer. I’ll testify. Those fibers might be the nails in his coffin.” Epstein smiled impishly. “That is, if the shavings you bring in next time are admissible in evidence.”
Wednesday night was cheaters night at Bradley’s. The bar and lounge were crowded. Soft music floated from speakers. The telephone calls had been made; the wives had been notified that their husbands would not be home for dinner. An unscheduled meeting or an important buyer were the usual lies.
Malone was squeezed in at the end of the bar, sipping Jack Daniel’s on ice. Reasonable Cause does sometimes get in the way, but Malone was fond of saying that a good cop can always make his own. The trick was not to get caught. In order to reenter Stanislaus’s apartment legally and dust the compact and diaphragm for her prints and obtain more shavings, he would need a search warrant with a “No Knock” clause. And in order to get one he would have to go before a competent court and show reasonable cause, some evidence, even hearsay, linking Police Officer Joseph Stanislaus to the murder of Sara Eisinger.
Drink finished, he pushed his glass onto the bar’s runway and motioned to the bartender for a refill.
Malone hefted the glass without drinking. What was Erica doing at this very moment, he wondered. Probably typing or editing her manuscript. He thought of her shaped triangle of downy hair and sighed. What the hell was he doing in this place? He drank and a euphoric glow began to spread through him. People around him were laughing and the music was louder. He was attuned to the charged atmosphere. His feet tapped to the beat of the music. He spun on his stool to watch the dancers. Small tables with flickering candles stuck inside netted red lanterns ringed the cube-size dance floor. The lights were dim. Swaying dancers pressed close to Malone. A “garmento” held a beautiful black woman in his arms. His knee slid between her legs. She pressed him close, pelvis grinding rhythmically, her head resting on his shoulder. Wifey was probably at home in Jericho playing mah-jongg with the girls. Go to it, ma man. As he spun back, a nagging thought came to mind. The Patrol Guide mandated an immediate notification to IAD whenever there was an indication of a MOF’s involvement in a crime. He sipped his drink, scoffing. Dear IAD
. Forty cops and an assistant chief might be involved in a homicide. Wanna take a case on it? Tell the mothers nothin’. He gulped his drink and ordered another.
Stern, Davis, and Johnson walked in. They hovered around the entrance, looking.
Malone turned and saw them shouldering their way toward him. Business should never be discussed in the presence of civilians, so he looked around and spotted an unoccupied banquette between the service bar and kitchen. He wrapped his glass in the cocktail napkin and motioned to the detectives to follow.
“Heard you had a big day at the range,” Starling Johnson said, sliding in next to him.
Malone raised his glass and nodded. “We have to come up with something that links Stanislaus to Eisinger. Any ideas?”
The detectives looked to each other. As their eyes met, they shrugged.
Malone looked at Bo Davis. “You said that Stanislaus was divorced and has been living at the Hamilton House for about two years.”
Davis spread his hands expressively and let them drop on the table. “Right.”
Malone said, “That is within the time frame that Eisinger started to work for the Braxtons.”
Stern wrinkled his brow. “So?”
A waitress came over to take their orders. They stopped talking. Stern leered at her, his eyes taking in her trim body. She wrote down their orders and turned to leave. Stern reached out and snagged her by the hip, turning her. “I’d love to get into your pants.”
She glowered at him. “I’ve got one asshole there now. I don’t need a second one.” She pulled away from his clutch and left in a huff.
The detectives laughed.
“The broad wants my form,” Stern said, watching her swaying backside.
When she was gone, Malone said, “I want to locate Stanislaus’s ex.”
Davis told him, “Pat and I checked with the phone company.”
Malone realized that Pat O’Shaughnessy was among the missing. “Where is Pat?”
“A problem at home,” Davis said. “Anyway, according to Ma Bell there are over two hundred Stanislauses in and around the metropolitan area.”
The waitress brought their drinks. Stern gave her a big smile. She wrinkled her nose at him and sneered.
Davis said to Malone, “Lou, it’ll take a lot of time to check all them subscribers. And the ex coulda moved or remarried, or be living under her maiden name.”
Malone toyed with his glass. “Time is one thing we don’t have a lot of.”
Nobody talked.
Stern watched with growing disbelief as Starling Johnson drank a Galliano with a beer chaser.
Stern grimaced. “How the fuck can you drink that shit?”
Johnson licked his fingers. “Each man to his own poison.” Starling Johnson’s face harmonized with the darkness, teeth and eyes accentuated by the glow of the flickering candle. “Stanislaus’s personnel folder is missing, right?”
“Right,” Malone said, wary.
“And we want to find out where he used to live on the assumption that his ex still lives there and might be able to tell us something about hubby and his love life.”
Malone held the glass in front of his face and nodded.
Johnson smiled. “This be a very ethnic job. I belong to the Guardians. Limp-dick Stern belongs to the Shomrim. Bo belongs to the St. George. And Stanislaus be a Polish name …”
Malone leaned over the table and punched him on the shoulder. “And you be a bloomin’ genius.”
“Are you sure that you want to use a direct approach?” Johnson said, sipping his cordial.
Malone pondered the question. “No. I don’t think I want him to know that we’re zeroing in on him. I’m gambling that he’s forgotten about those items his girlfriend left in his bathroom.” He grabbed a handful of pretzels from the bowl and started to toss them into his mouth one at a time, thinking. He said to Johnson, “Steal a policewoman from the precinct. Locate the ex and have the policewoman hang around some of the beauty parlors and Laundromats. They’re hotbeds of local gossip.”
15
THURSDAY, July 2
When Malone walked into the squad room, Heinemann glanced at him and nodded toward the lieutenant’s office.
Bo Davis was perched on Malone’s desk, trying to console O’Shaughnessy who was slumped in a chair, hands limp between his legs. Dark folds of skin sagged his eyes.
“Lemme ’lone,” O’Shaughnessy was saying.
Malone pushed the door closed and looked at Davis.
“His wife left him,” Davis said.
“That cunt!” O’Shaughnessy stormed from the chair and kicked the desk.
Malone was concerned. “What happened?”
O’Shaughnessy lit a cigarette. “The minute I walked in last night I knew somethin’ was wrong. ‘We have a dinner guest, dear,’” he mimicked, sarcastically. “I just knew. I went into the dining room and there she was, sitting at my table, drinking my tea. That Irish whore.”
“Oh shit. Foam,” Malone said.
Davis said, “How did she find out where you lived?”
“She works for Sears, Roebuck. She ran a credit check on me. Bam! There I was. A computer printout, address and all. ‘Hi. I’m Foam. Your husband has been screwing me for years. I’m in a family way and he’s the daddy.’ ‘Oh?’ says my wife. ‘Do come in dear. Watch the steps. I’ll make us some tea and we’ll have a nice long talk.’”
“Any chance of patching things up?” Davis said.
“No way. My wife got no sense of humor.”
The tour was almost over. O’Shaughnessy had put in a 28 for the remainder of it and was off apartment hunting. Harrigan had telephoned to tell Malone that one of his detectives had taken photographs of three men who fitted the descriptions of Stanislaus, Bramson, and Kelly. They were snapped leaving the SOD compound. Malone had telephoned Erica to ask if she could have dinner with him.
“I’d love to, Daniel.”
Her voice caused a stirring in his stomach. He had been contemplating her willing body when a commotion in the squad room shook him from his reverie. Zambrano plunged into the office waving a newspaper in front of him.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. And how has your day been?”
“How has my day been? My fucking telephone hasn’t stopped ringing.” He shook the paper at Malone. “You better get your fucking circus in the tent. Have you gone mad, planting a story like this?”
“What story?” His expression was deadpan.
Zambrano had read Fine’s column. The last paragraph dealt with a usually reliable source within the police department. Zambrano stabbed the column with his finger. “That story!” His eyes were wide and it seemed that every vein and artery in his neck and face were about to burst.
Malone glanced up at the flaking ceiling. “Who said I planted it?”
“Fine’s motherfuckin’ byline says you planted it! Everyone in the Job knows you two are asshole buddies.”
Malone took out two cups and an unopened bottle of Old Grand Dad. He held one of the cups up to his eye and then blew the inside clean. He cracked the bottle and poured. “I needed some answers. Figured a little fire under some ass might make people a wee bit more cooperative.”
Zambrano looked at him sharply. “Or desperate.”
Malone shrugged indifference and pushed a cup across to him.
Zambrano picked it up and drank. When he put the cup down, he appeared somewhat mollified. “I’ve just come from the Chief of Op. He wanted to know about you.”
Why would the Chief of Operations, the department’s highest-ranking uniform member, be interested in him? Malone wondered. Rolling his cup between palms, he asked, “What did you tell him?”
“I said that you were one hundred percent.” He moved close to the desk, tapping a fist against his lips. “The Chief of Op is not the kind of man you play grab-ass with. He’s where he is because he was the most ruthless and cunning of the palace guard. I strongly suggest that you start looking over your shoulder.�
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Malone looked up at him. “What can you tell me about Chief Whitney Zangline?”
Zambrano rolled his eyes upward and whistled. “You got a big one. Know anything about the Red Squad?”
“Rumors mostly.”
“At one time the Red Squad was a covert subunit of the Intelligence Division. Their mission was the penetration and disruption of subversive groups. Five years ago they were given another mission”—he pulled out a fugitive nose hair, held it up in front of him, examining it—“terrorism.”
Malone rubbed his lips in concentration.
Zambrano continued, “Remember the bombing at the World Trade Center five years ago?”
Malone nodded.
“The Red Squad knew about that before it went down. One of their stools sold them the information. Instead of passing it on, they sat on it until every one in their internal chain of command passed on the information’s authenticity. When they finally let it out-of-house, it was too late. Twenty-seven lives could have been saved. When the PC found out he went nuts. The C.O. of the squad was reduced to captain and forced to retire. Everyone in the squad who had their time in was told to throw in their papers. The rest of the squad was transferred back into the bag and told to walk with twenty.” Zambrano pushed the empty cup across the desk.
Malone broke his concentration and poured.
“About the same time Whitney Zangline had developed SOD into an antiterrorist strike force. That’s SOD’s real mission. Chrissake, he has more men under arms than some countries. Zangline went to the PC and complained about a lack of communication between Intelligence and SOD. He thought that Intelligence was too compartmentalized. He convinced the PC that SOD needed its own Intelligence arm. The Red Squad was transferred to SOD. Zangline was able to build from the bottom, with his own hand-picked men.”
Malone thought of Ancorie training policemen in the use of the Uzi.
“Where does his weight come from?”
Zambrano shook his head. “Dunno. But he is heavy. His budget requests are never trimmed.” He toasted him. “And that my brash, young lieutenant, takes powerful connections.”
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