One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  “And who are these connections?”

  Zambrano grinned. “Whatya tryna do, make me spread rumors?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I hear whispers, mind you, not many, or loud, but I hear them all the same. Zangline is supposed to be close with Carter Moorhouse.”

  “The politician?”

  “Yep. When Moorhouse ran for mayor a few years back he asked the PC to let Zangline have charge of his security detail. Since then, they’ve been spotted having dinner a few times.”

  “That’s not very much.”

  Zambrano flicked his cup aside with his fingernails. He got up and stretched, his arms reaching for the ceiling. Relaxing, he strolled over to the window. He sat on the sill and leaned forward, hands cupping kneecaps. He realized that his socks did not match. One was black, the other charcoal. “Yesterday I went to the Captain Endowment Association’s monthly luncheon. Over the clink of martini glasses, I picked up a few whispers concerning Zangline. Grapevine has it that he’s up to his ass in something heavy.”

  Malone was interested. “Can you find out what?”

  “Did you ever stop to think that nothing happens in this job without first passing through some pencil pusher’s desk in the Bureau of Audits and Accounts. My brother-in-law is a SPAA there. I’ve been planning to take him to lunch.” Zambrano got up. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  Malone spread his lips and gestured nothing.

  “That’s good. The Chief of Op wants you in his office at five P.M. He said to be on time.”

  Photographs of three unsuspecting men walking toward a car were spread over the desk. Malone shuffled them, looking at each one. He recognized Stanislaus from the range. Davis identified Bramson and Kelly. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out the snapshot of Sara Eisinger that her parents had lent him. He put it with the others and tapped them together into one neat stack. He handed the stack to Jake Stern. “I want you to do a canvass of the joints around the Hamilton House. That part of Queens is a big singles’ area. Show these around. See if you can put Eisinger and Stanislaus together.”

  Jack Harrigan’s head was way back, draining a container of beer. He snapped forward and at the same time arched the empty tube into the wastebasket. Malone caught the look that crossed the sergeant’s face as he watched Stern walk out. “What’s bothering you, Jack?”

  Harrigan looked him in the eyes. “Some of my men don’t feature working on cops.”

  Malone gave a worried sigh. “None of us do. I think most of the cops involved are either legit or dupes in a caper they know nothing about. Someone out there is using the department, manipulating it.”

  “I don’t want my men branded IAD scumbags.”

  “They won’t be. We won’t be. We’re doing the right thing.”

  Harrigan nodded feebly and left.

  Malone knew that he had just about used up all his time.

  Washing machines rumbled on concrete platforms. Dryers spun. Local announcements tacked on bulletin boards advertised fifteen-year-old girl, available to baby-sit; a two-room mother/daughter was for rent at 7 Plumeding Lane, Pearl River, New York; and there was to be a mammoth garage sale this Saturday at 12 Rosehaven Hollow, Pearl River, New York.

  Women waited inside the Laundromat for their clothes to dry. Others pulled items from machines and tossed them into plastic baskets.

  Jean O’Day had her hair in rollers. A housecoat with a lavender-and-yellow forget-me-not design concealed her shapely body, hiding the waistband holster.

  O’Day was a cop from the Fifth.

  She stuffed her laundry into the front-load machine and closed the door. She measured the proper amount of detergent and softener, set the wash cycle, and inserted coins. The machine started to spin, a mass of suds formed behind the porthole. When she turned around, she caught three pairs of eyes leaving her. She gathered up her boxes and walked over to the women. “Hi. I’m Jean O’Day.”

  Detective Starling Johnson parked the department auto so that he might have an unrestricted view of the Laundromat. He slouched behind the wheel, working the New York Times crossword puzzle. One eye was glued on the Laundromat. She was standing among a group of women, gabbing.

  The day had begun early for Johnson. He had left one of his girlfriend’s bed at 4:13 A.M., dressed, and drove to the stationhouse. In order to steal a policewoman for a day he needed the approval of the precinct commander. Patrol precincts are made up of two separate commands: patrol and detective. A captain is usually in command of the uniform force; a lieutenant commands the detectives.

  The precinct captain is charged with the responsibility for the plant and its maintenance. Sometimes the lines of communication between the two commands get twisted and there is friction. But not at the Fifth. Captain Bruno Carini was first, last, and always a street cop. The Fifth was his third command and the word was that he was one of the rising stars. The pressure of running an urban police precinct was taking its toll. There was a time when Carini always wore a smile on his face. No more. He looked tired and drawn. He was finishing up a late tour when Johnson knocked on the door.

  After studying the eight-by-four roll call, Carini had said, “I’ll let you have O’Day for the day. She’s about the only female who knows where it’s at.” As Johnson was leaving he had said, “Tell your boss he owes me another one.”

  The first thing Johnson noticed about Police Officer O’Day was that she was flat chested. The second thing was her eyes. They reminded him of gray bottle caps. The third was the smile. It burst over her entire face.

  A few minutes alone with her in the sitting room told him that she was intelligent, quick, eager, and had a glowing ambition to get a gold detective shield. As they discussed her assignment, Johnson had fantasized about Police Officer O’Day sprawled naked in bed. White skin blended with black. She only had nipples, brown and hard. He gnawed them and she writhed with ecstasy. She stroked his black hardness. When she could no longer stand it, she demanded that he enter her.

  “What I would like you to do is go home and change into something that will make you look like a housewife. I’ll meet you back here in one hour.”

  Johnson had located Stanislaus’s neighborhood through the Pulaski Association. He had gone to their suite of rooms in a downtown office building. The grandmother type who worked there looked concerned when she saw him standing there. She was nigger scared. He smiled warmly and showed her his shield and I.D. She relaxed immediately. Her late husband, God rest his soul, worked out of old Traffic B. She went on to berate the inadequateness of the Article I pension system. The cost-of-living escalator clause sucks, she told him.

  “Yes’m.” He listened to the litany of woe with interest and patience. Twenty minutes later when she paused to catch her breath he leaped into the opening. He told her that he was trying to get the home address of someone he had come on the job with. They were planning a class reunion. Joe Stanislaus was a member of the Pulaski and since he was in the neighborhood he thought that he might save himself a trip to headquarters. Four wooden file boxes were on a clerical cart. She swiveled around and slid open the last one.

  “Stanislaus, Joseph,” she said, nimbly fingering the cards. She flicked one out. There was a recent address change. What was the old address? “24 Pickwicklan Drive Circle, Pearl River, New York,” she read.

  “That’s the one. I remember Joe always complaining about the damn crabgrass in Pearl River.”

  A covered carriage carried by poles. Nine letters down. He tapped the pencil against his teeth. O’Day was engaged in animated conversation. He caught her glance in his direction and thought he saw a glimmer of lust. Wishful thinking, he thought.

  Palanquin. Nine letters. He filled in the boxes.

  Detective Johnson and Police Officer O’Day had a pleasant ride back. They got to know each other, a little. When they drove up in front of the Fifth, the Third Platoon was flowing into the street. O’Day was anxious to make her report to the detective commande
r. The ladies of the Laundromat had been most helpful, she reported. There was not much that went on in Pearl River they did not know about. Especially when it concerned the carryings-on of husbands. A fat woman with a hairy birthmark on the tip of her nose had been eager to talk. She confided that Joe Stanislaus was having a “thing” with one of the policewomen in his precinct. Pranced home one night and told his dear wife that he was leaving. He was in love for the first time in his life, he told his wife, the woman with the birthmark said. She had moved close to the ladies and murmured, “I suppose she did all those disgusting things that men like.” Jean O’Day had nodded knowingly. It was at that point that she had glanced in Johnson’s direction. Did he always wear tight trousers?

  Malone gave her his full attention.

  When she finished making her report he got up and went to the blackboard. Next to Stanislaus’s name he wrote: Policewoman? Eisinger was not on the Job. If she was Stanislaus’s girlfriend then someone was mistaken. He moved back, studying the board. Stanislaus might have had two women on the string, one of whom could have been a policewoman. Eisinger found out. They fought. He killed her. Or? If David Ancorie could train policemen in the use and care of the Uzi, why could not Eisinger train them in computers or warehouse maintenance, or something? They could have met at a training session. Lovers have to meet someplace. It would be a natural mistake for the ex to assume she was on the Job. He liked it. It had the right ring.

  Detective Johnson leaned close to Police Officer O’Day.

  “How about a bite to eat?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

  In the window of the restaurant on Austin Street a statue of a boy held a pizza in his outstretched hands. Heinemann and Stern had worn down shoe leather in Stanislaus’s Queens neighborhood for the past two hours. The owner of Ricco’s was a rotund man with a chunky face and a prairie of shiny skin stretched over his cranium. Heinemann showed him the photographs. “They’re not in any kind of trouble, are they?” Stern assured him that they weren’t. It was an accident case and they had been witnesses. The owner was relieved. They were such a nice couple. The blond man in the one photo and the woman standing on the pier in the other photo used to eat here all the time. He moved close to the detectives. A man ready to share a secret. “They were very much in love. It made my heart good to see them holding hands and kissing. Like young kids.” They questioned him closely. When they finished, Heinemann telephoned Malone and told him what they had discovered. They had a pizza that tasted even better because it was on the arm, and then drove to Hamilton House.

  The doorman was a patronizing shit who always had his hand out. The detectives sized him up at once. Stern told him that they were private detectives working on a matrimonial. Their client was a doctor who would do the right thing if someone were to come up with some information on his wife.

  “What kinda information you lookin’ for?” the doorman asked, squaring his hat to the front.

  Heinemann told him the doctor had reason to believe his wife was sleeping around with a resident of Hamilton House. He had followed his wife there on more than one occasion. Stern passed the doorman the photographs. He flipped through them, giving each photo a perfunctory glance. Finished, he flopped the stack into Heinemann’s hand and hurried to open the door for a lady and her sheepdog. Returning, he asked slyly, “How much?”

  Stern spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “A yard.”

  “I got a piss-poor memory. Make it five hundred,” said the doorman.

  “Fuck you, pally,” Stern said, walking away.

  “Three hundred,” the doorman said.

  “Two,” Stern countered.

  “Gimme a break,” said the doorman.

  “Two fifty,” Heinemann said.

  “Okay. Apartment 24 J. Name’s Stanislaus. She had her own key.”

  Heinemann looked at him sternly. “You sure she had a key?”

  The doorman snapped a thumb in his face and raised his voice. “I’m sure.”

  The detectives looked at each other. “You wait here. I’ll go,” Stern said.

  “Whaddabout my money?” said the doorman.

  “I’m going to see about that right now,” said Stern.

  It took him forty-eight minutes to drive back to the station-house. He trudged the steps to the squad room, pausing to catch his breath.

  Sara Eisinger’s property was stacked in plastic evidence bags with property vouchers wrapped around them. Each key that had been identified had a tag attached to it that noted the lock that it opened. Two keys had no tags. He signed them out on the voucher: name, rank, shield number, and date and time. He returned the rest of the evidence and locked the locker.

  “Got my money?” said the doorman, walking up to him.

  Stern ignored the question. “Does Stanislaus own a car?”

  “Yeah. A red Honda. He keeps it in the garage.”

  Janet Fox had seen Eisinger get out of a red Honda on a rainy night long ago.

  “What kind of rent does he pay here?” Heinemann said.

  The doorman pulled on his ear. “Five and a quarter for a one bedroom and another seventy-five for the garage. What about my money?”

  Stern grabbed him by the gold-trimmed lapels of his uniform. “Three weeks from today at exactly 2 P.M. a guy is going to walk up to you and hand you an envelope. Your bread’ll be in it.”

  “Three weeks!”

  Stern tightened his grip. The doorman’s lip quivered.

  Stern said, “That’s the way things work, pally. We gotta check out your story. In the meantime, you button your mouth.” He released one hand and pointed at Heinemann. “If you don’t, my large friend here will come back and dance the tarantella on your nuts.”

  “It’s over here,” Stern said, standing in front of apartment 24 J. The first key unlocked the door. Supressing an urge to enter, Stern locked the door and dropped Eisinger’s key into his pocket.

  Waiting for the elevator, Heinemann said, “Wait a minute.” He ran back and toed the mat square with the jamb.

  Stern held the elevator.

  Malone spent the rest of the day reading and signing fives. How does a cop pay alimony and still afford six hundred dollars for an apartment and garage? The answer was simple. He doesn’t. Not unless he has an unreported source of income or some old ammo boxes stuffed with greenbacks.

  It was almost 4 P.M. when a gruff voice piped in from the squad room. “Lou, you gotta call on three.” Malone checked the time. Erica would be waiting and he was anxious. He almost yelled out to tell the caller that he was on patrol but the nagging feeling that it might be important caused him to yank up the receiver and press the blinking button.

  “Lou, this is Sergeant Vincent from the Nineteenth Squad. Do you know an Erica Sommers?”

  “Yes!” he blurted, jerking forward in the chair, aware of a sudden thumping in his chest.

  “You better get over to her apartment. There’s been a homicide.”

  Three East End Avenue was on a bluff overlooking the East River. The building had thirty-five stories of reflective glass topped by a penthouse and a huge lobby filled with paintings and sculpture.

  With roof light and siren on constant, Malone sped the unmarked car north along the FDR Drive through the blossoming evening traffic. It took him thirty-six minutes to get to Eightieth Street. East End Avenue between Eightieth and Eighty-first was cordoned with police vehicles. Several unmarked cars had been abandoned in the middle of the avenue. Radio cars were parked on the sidewalk. The Crime Scene Unit’s blue-and-white station wagon was blocking the entrance to 3 East End’s underground garage.

  Malone drove the car around the west side of the Eightieth Street cordon and up onto the sidewalk. Halfway down the block he parked, leaving the roof light flashing red. He ran from the car over to the nearest policeman. “Where is it?”

  “In the garage, Lou,” the startled cop said, staring at the gold lieutenant’s shield that Malone thrust
at him.

  As he ran down the curving two-lane driveway, he was breathless and conscious of a sharp welt of pain across his forehead. He reached the bottom and found himself in an underground garage full of cars, each one in a stall designated by a little yellow number and enclosed within yellow boundary lines. Save for its silent tenants, it was empty. Off in the distance he could hear the echo of voices. He made for them. Walking rapidly, his footfalls added to the hollow sounds. He could smell gasoline fumes and the heavy odor of motor oil. The voices grew louder. He broke into a trot.

  When he reached the eastern extremity of the garage he turned the bend and stopped short. Grim-faced detectives, their shields pinned to their sport coats, were gathered around Erica Sommers’s green Oldsmobile Cutlass. A photographer was kneeling on the front seat of the green car flashing pictures of the rear.

  He hesitated, afraid of what he was going to see in the rear seat of the Cutlass. And then, with his shield case dangling open in his hand, and the cold knot in his stomach getting tighter, he began pushing past the detectives.

  Sprawled over the seat was the body of a man. His hands were tied behind his back and a bloody plastic bag was pulled over his head and garroted around the neck with wire. The cadaver’s eyes bulged from their sockets in a wild, dull stare and the tongue protruded limply over the lip.

  An overwhelming sense of relief swept over Malone and he felt weak. Sergeant Vincent had told him that she was all right, but he needed to see for himself.

  He turned to meet the stares. “Where is she?”

  Two policemen were on guard outside Erica’s sixteenth-floor apartment. Malone flashed his shield and rushed past them.

  She was sitting in a high-backed chair in the sunken living room staring down at the geometric pattern of the carpet. When she heard the sound of the closing door she glanced up and looked disbelievingly at him. She was wearing a pair of white jeans and a blue tunic-top blouse. Before a word could pass between them she sprang up and ran into his waiting arms. He began to say sympathetic things, trying to console her. And then he realized that she was not hysterical. Her face showed no trace of tears. She bore a countenance of resigned bewilderment. “I was going shopping and found that thing in my car. I feel as though I’ve been personally violated. What kind of animals are there in this world?” For the first time he sensed fear in her voice.