Lt. Jack Weidt, the “whip” or boss of the Nineteenth Squad of detectives, was a trendy dresser. A medium-size man with a throaty voice, he was completely bald and had deep green eyes that had gray spots in both irises. He walked in off the terrace followed close behind by Lt. Joe Mannelli, who looked almost sick with worry. They walked over to the embracing couple and waited for Malone to notice them.
Malone looked at them over her shoulder.
“I saw to it that her name was left out of it, Dan. There’ll be no mention of her on any five or to the press hounds,” Weidt said.
Malone nodded his thanks.
“Can you give us a few minutes?” Mannelli said in a low voice, motioning toward the terrace.
With a quick movement of his eyes, Malone indicated that they should wait for him out on the terrace and then led Erica into the bedroom and closed the door.
“Lie down and try to get some sleep.”
“That was a body, Daniel. In my car. Why? Why me? Does it have something to do with you, with us?”
“Someone probably thought it was a convenient place to dump a body.”
“Don’t tell me fairy tales, Daniel. I have a right to know what the hell is going on.”
“I don’t know what’s going down. But be assured that you’re going to have round-the-clock protection.”
“I don’t want a bunch of grubby policemen following me every time I go to the bathroom or sit down at the typewriter.”
He spent the next thirty minutes soothing her; then he left her to join the anxious men on the terrace of her apartment.
“What the fuck went down in that garage?” Malone said, stepping outside.
Jack Weidt replied, “She discovered the body about three forty-five P.M. A garage attendant heard her screams and came a-runnin’. When we arrived on the scene she dropped your name and we called you. The M.E. hasn’t been here yet. He’s stuck on a triple homicide in Whitestone. I took a look-see at the body. There’s some lividity. Rigor mortis has set in around the head and neck. There are three tightly grouped entrance wounds above the left ear that look as though they were made by twenty-twos. I’d say that he was wasted four to six hours ago, which would make the time of occurrence somewhere between nine and twelve this morning.” He paused to light a cigar.
“There were two attendants on duty from eight A.M. The body had to have been planted here during their tour. We’ve been leaning on them and they know from nothing. And I believe them. We checked both of them out and they’re clean. Not so much as a summons for drinking beer in the park.” Weidt cast a worried look in Malone’s direction. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to plant that stiff in your girlfriend’s car. Any ideas?”
Malone ignored the question. “Has he been I.D.’ed?”
Joe Mannelli had been standing with his back to them, watching the river, seemingly oblivious to the conversation behind him. Now he turned abruptly, a look of alarm etched into his face. “He’s from my league, Dan—Ismail al Banna.”
Malone was astonished. “Banna!”
“You got it. Banna was wanted in half a dozen countries for terrorist acts. Everything from political kidnappings to murder. We recently received word through the French secret service that he was hiding in New York. SDECE’s Bureau Five turned someone around in Morocco. The word within the community is that it was Banna who pulled off the New Year’s Eve bombings. It was a contract job for the FALN. Ever since the P.R. freedom fighters blew up their bomb factory in Greenwich Village they’ve lost their stomach for explosives. They hire out their jobs now, and Banna was one of the best.”
Mannelli was frantically rubbing his left thumb. “I don’t like it. I tell you, I don’t like it. Terrorists are a tightly knit fraternity of nut jobs. They’d only waste one of their own if they thought he had turned. And Banna wasn’t—not by us, not by the FBI, and not by the agency.”
“Maybe someone in your minor league blew him away,” Malone said sarcastically.
“And dumped the body in your girlfriend’s car? That ain’t how it’s done,” Mannelli said.
Malone wanted to get back to Erica. “If you don’t need me for anything I’m going back into the bedroom.”
“I’ll clean up in the garage,” Weidt said.
The three men walked back into the apartment. Weidt and Mannelli headed for the door, and Malone moved off toward the bedroom. The two lieutenants had climbed the three steps leading into the marble-walled foyer when Mannelli turned suddenly and roared at the back of Malone’s head. “Someone is sending you a message in the clear. And it’s signed Eisinger.”
When they had left the apartment Malone telephoned the Squad and told Stern what had happened. He gave him Erica’s telephone number and told him that he was going to stay with her. Then he hung up and went into the bedroom.
Erica was sitting up on the bed with her head resting against the brass-railed headboard and her arms folded tightly across her chest. She was staring unseeingly at a television quiz show. He went over to her and took her hand. Lowering himself he said, “You okay?”
She looked at him wearing a wan smile. “That body had something to do with us. Doesn’t it, Daniel?”
He took a deep breath and sighed. “It was a warning. For me. Back off a certain case or …”
“They’ll kill me.”
“Nobody is going to kill anybody. I want you to go away for a while. A few days, until I can get to the bottom of this.”
She looked away from him. “I think that that might be best.” She was crying.
The late tour was coming out of the stationhouse when Malone returned later that night. He walked into the squad room and found one of the desks covered with white containers of Chinese food. He picked up a cold egg roll on his way into his office. Three detectives were present. Two were hunched over typewriters and the third was purring over the telephone to a female who obviously was not his wife. The detective using the telephone saw Malone and clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Some guy has been calling you every hour on the hour. Wouldn’t give his name.”
Not acknowledging the message, Malone walked into his office and slammed the door. He wanted to be alone and think. That body had reinforced his belief that he was dealing with ruthless, brutal men, and he was apprehensive for Erica and himself.
He took out the bottle and poured a stiff drink into a dirty cup. Whoever had done in Banna had done the world a favor, but he knew that that was not the intent behind Ismail al Banna’s sudden demise. He was relieved to know that Erica was now safe. He had driven her to her sister’s house in Washington Heights and had extracted a promise from her: she would call no one and tell no one where she was.
The liquor had just started to have its relaxing effect when the voice piped from the other side of the door. “That guy is on four.”
It was only a frightened whisper. Malone could hear no background noises, but he did pick up on a slight accent.
“I was in the garage. I saw them.”
Malone had pad and pencil ready. “How many were there?”
“Three. And I recognized one of them.”
“Who was he?”
“Mr. Malone, I’m afraid. I have a family. I live in the same building and know Miss Sommers. She’s a lovely lady but I just can’t become involved in anything like this. You have to understand.”
“How did you know my name and where to contact me?”
“I heard policemen talking in the elevator. They said that her boyfriend was a lieutenant who worked in Chinatown. Malone was his name, they said.”
“I can promise you anonymity. No one will ever know we’ve talked.”
A long pause. “If you’re willing to meet me I’ll tell you what I saw. But you must promise …”
“I do. Tell me when and where.”
“Tomorrow night at eleven. Drive east on the LIE and get off at Glen Cove Road. I’ll be waiting for you on the service road.”
“Why so far out of the city?”
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“I have a business in Roosevelt Field. We close at nine. By the time I clean up and get ready for the morning it’ll be ten. I can’t take any chance of us being seen together.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night at eleven.”
They clicked off.
Across the river in Brooklyn, Achmed Hamed’s eyes were fixed on the barrel of dried dates in the rear of his Atlantic Avenue grocery store. He turned slowly away from the wall phone and looked into the face of the man standing next to him, studying the crazed eyes for a signal. “Was it all right?” he asked in an unsure voice.
Stanislaus slapped Hamed’s shoulder. “You did real good, my friend. Real good.”
On the other side of the street directly in front of the Dime Savings Bank two detectives slouched in the front seat of a taxi. “Wonder what brought him to that place?” a heavy-set detective said to his partner.
“Who the fuck cares,” the other detective said, closing his eyes and dozing.
16
THURSDAY, July 2 … Night
It was a black-tie affair.
Crystal chandeliers sparkled over the dining room of the Algonquin Club where judicial dignitaries had gathered to pay honor to retiring Judge Michael X. Brynes. Judge Aristotle Niarxos tapped the sterling-silver bread knife against the linen tablecloth, his stare fixed attentively on the podium, not hearing a word. His mind was consumed with the image of Markell’s plump body.
A burst of applause rousted him back.
Judge Brynes was making his way to the speaker’s stand. The old man firmed his stance by gripping the edge. He started to speak. Will the senile bastard ever end, Niarxos thought.
Niarxos was a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties. He hated testimonial dinners. Their redeeming feature was that they gave him a solid excuse to get out of the house. The invitation was always left in some convenient place where his wife was sure to see it. Over the years he had learned to employ every weapon at his disposal to further his quest for the perfect woman. His search had ended two years ago when he hired Markell Sphiros as his secretary.
After thirty minutes of dreadfully boring reminiscences, Judge Michael X. Brynes stepped from the podium, tears in his eyes. Niarxos leaped to his feet, applauding. A cue to leave. He backed away from the table and quickly left the room.
“I say, governor, will ya sign a search warrant for an old war veteran?”
Niarxos wrenched, staring at the form looming at him from the shadows.
“Gus? This is one helluva time to ask me to sign a warrant. I’m on my way to see a lady. Catch me in the morning. In my chambers.”
Heinemann moved up to him and whispered, “We’ve always done right by you, your honor. Your name was never mentioned during Knapp. Now we need one.”
Niarxos cleared his throat and mimed surrender. He thrust his hand into his tuxedo and removed half glasses.
Heinemann said, “Have all the papers right here. Made them out myself.” He proffered the documents with a pleading smile. “How is Markell?”
“She’s waiting for me,” Niarxos said, scanning the legal papers.
Heinemann said, “She is one helluva woman. Always reminded me of a girl I met when I parachuted into Greece during the big war. OSS. Difficult times.”
Niarxos looked at him over his half glasses. “I suppose if my name was Goldberg you would tell me you fought with the Haganah.”
Heinemann lifted his shoulders and let them fall slowly.
Niarxos returned to the papers, scanning, picking out main points.
The judge’s mouth became a straight line. “Have illegal wires been employed in this case?”
Heinemann feigned shock. “Your honor?”
“Your probable cause is weak.”
Heinemann did not answer. He knew how to play the game. Always give the man in the black robe an exit.
“Why the request for the ‘No Knock’?”
“We have reasonable cause to believe that the suspect has weapons concealed therein.”
Niarxos flipped to the last page, turning the others over and under. He took out a ballpoint pen and snapped the button down, holding it over the line requiring his signature. He read the last paragraph and affixed his name to the order. “This warrant will have to be executed within ten days.”
“May Allah grant you ten erections this night.”
The judge laughed. “I’ll settle for one.”
17
FRIDAY, July 3 … Morning
Morris Dunbar had gotten four feet inside the reception area when he stopped in his tracks. He blanched. The muscles in his stomach and arms tightened and his eyes grew wide with alarm. He reached up and took the cigar from his mouth, swallowed hard, and then, forcing a smile, rushed to greet his unexpected visitor.
The reason for Morris Dunbar’s sudden discomfort was sitting in a canvas-backed chair flipping through the latest issue of Yachting.
Lt. Dan Malone, NYPD.
Dunbar had met Malone eighteen years before. A chance encounter in Tompkins Park, Brooklyn.
Patrolman Malone was working a four-to-twelve on Patrol Post 4. The post condition card said to give special attention to park lavatories. Prevent the congregation of sexual perverts. Malone checked the bunker-type bathrooms every hour.
It was September and the leaves were beginning to give hint of yellows, oranges, and umbers. Around 6:45, Patrolman Malone strolled into the foul-smelling bathroom. He saw that all the spaces in front of the urinals were empty. The doors to the toilet cubicles were open, except for the last one. Keeping his distance, he bent dog fashion and peeked under the closed door. He saw a pair of feet, crumpled trousers, and a shopping bag between splayed legs. Grinning knowingly, he got up and padded his way into the next-to-last cubicle. He stood up on the seat and peered over the partition.
Morris Dunbar was seated on the throne. Standing before him with his legs hidden inside the shopping bag, and his naked and erect penis in Morris Dunbar’s mouth, was a seventeen-year-old black boy.
“Hi guys,” Malone said, waving down.
Morris Dunbar took short deep breaths, trying to shake the panicky feeling that suddenly engulfed his confidence. Right hand extended, he went to greet his old friend.
Malone tossed the magazine on the glass table and got up to accept the proffered hand of the president of Dunbar Research Associates.
Malone saw the same weak smile that always appeared whenever he made one of his infrequent visits. No arrests were made that long-ago night in Tompkins Park. Malone’s wife, Helen, had been waiting for him to finish his tour. They had planned to make love, and then go to Luciano’s for late night pasta and wine, afterward return home and love again. He had had no intention of giving that up for a bullshit collar that he knew would end up with a hundred-dollar fine, and a “don’t do it again boys” reprimand from some liberal judge, so he cut the lovers loose with a warning to keep their private lives out of the public domain.
Morris Dunbar had almost collapsed with relief. Hyperventilating at the thought of not being arrested, he had thrust his business card into the patrolman’s hand. “Anytime I can ever be of any assistance, please come by and see me.”
Morris Dunbar had always regretted that momentary lapse of discretion. Every few years the cop who knew his secret would appear to collect on his noncancelable marker.
“Morris, ol’ friend, need a small favor,” Malone said, looking into the man’s troubled face.
“Dan? Anytime. You know that,” said Morris Dunbar, throwing a welcoming arm around the policeman and steering him into his plushly carpeted office with large tinted windows.
Malone looked into the owllike face with the spirals of smoke rising past the nose. “If I were to give you the names of four men, would you be able to give me a financial profile on them?”
Dunbar drew on his cigar. “Got their Social Security numbers?”
Malone looked puzzled. “Are they necessary?”
Morris Dunbar guff
awed. “You kiddin’? They’re everything. You can’t open a checking account, rent a car, buy a house, or have a telephone installed without listing your Social Security number.” Morris Dunbar puckered his lips and blew thick smoke rings. “They’re our identification papers and the backbone of my business.”
“I’m in a hurry, Morris.”
“There are other ways. What are the names?”
Malone handed him a folded sheet of paper. Dunbar read aloud. “Whitney Zangline, Edwin Bramson, Joseph Stanislaus, and Charles Kelly. How do they make their living?”
“They’re policemen,” breathed Malone.
Morris Dunbar shot him a look and then swiveled his eyes back to the paper. “I think that we will be able to manage without their numbers. They’re uncommon names, except for Kelly. Might not have much luck with that one. Our data banks are cross referenced by name, pedigree, occupation, and Social Security number.”
Dunbar Research Associates was the seventh largest credit-research company in the country. It occupied the twenty-first, second, and -third floors of a modern building on Madison Avenue. The twenty-third floor was divided into glass-partitioned spaces that were filled with intricate electronic equipment and tape consoles with constantly spinning and jerking oversized spools.
Morris Dunbar led him into a windowless alcove with four rows of desks with computer consoles mounted on each one. Next to each desk was an electronic printer. Workers were busy typing coded information into data banks.
As they entered the alcove, a thin Oriental man rushed over to them. “Good morning, Mr. Dunbar. May I help you?”
Morris Dunbar shook his head and quickly turned to his visitor. “No thank you, John.” He moved to a console and sat down, motioning for Malone to drag a chair over.
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