One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  Anderman turned in his seat to say something, then at the last second changed his mind and looked away.

  Malone edged close. “You have been pissing on my parade since the beginning. One of these days I am going to shove a cattle prod up your ass and put your balls on trickle.”

  Anderman got halfway up and leaned across the table, tapping the stack of transcripts. “I suggest that you wait until you read these.”

  McQuade’s face reflected his grave concern. “We are facing a crisis.” He looked to Anderman and Malone. “We must work together, Past differences forgotten.” He waved a hand at Deputy Inspector Obergfoll, who nodded and went around the room closing blinds. McQuade picked up one of the transcripts and then went over to the light switch and flipped it. He cracked the door so that a sliver of light shone in.

  Obergfoll turned on the projector. Holding the transcript in the light from the beam, McQuade watched the screen, ready to deliver the dialogue. A bleak, unsteady picture fluttered onto the screen. Stanislaus was pacing before a park bench. The men sitting were watching him.

  McQuade said, “Stanislaus speaking: ‘We make our move now. Bramson will contact our Arab.… We have enough people to destroy.… All the equipment is ready. There is enough Plactic C to do the job and …’

  “Kelly speaking: ‘Some cops are bound to get hurt.’”

  “Stanislaus speaking: ‘That can’t be helped. We all knew what we were getting into.… Mannelli must go.…’”

  Malone watched intently, and strained to read their lips.

  Aldridge Braxton jumped to his feet.

  “Braxton speaking: ‘You are all crazy. My sister and I want no part of this. It’s madness. We will not go with you.…”

  Stanislaus’s back was to the camera. A fist was waved at Braxton. Bramson was on his feet pushing Braxton back down. The camera recorded the tremor in Braxton’s legs.

  McQuade read aloud, “Kelly speaking: ‘All right.’

  “Bramson speaking: ‘I will see to it.’

  “Stanislaus speaking: ‘Afterward we go about our business as though nothing has happened.’”

  One by one they got up and walked from the park. The film quickened. A jumble of white dots flicked past the upper-right-hand corner of the screen. Smoke floated inside the beam. Zangline appeared walking through the park. He went over to Stanislaus. Both men walked away from the river. The camera recorded their lip movements.

  McQuade read aloud, “Zangline speaking: ‘The piano tuner wants to see us.’

  “Stanislaus speaking: ‘When.’

  “Zangline speaking: ‘Right now. And we better make damn sure that we’re not followed.’”

  Cameras followed their departure from the park. More dots appeared on the screen, and then Stanislaus and Zangline reappeared walking past a small park in Tudor City. They had a brief conversation with a man in a chauffeur’s hat and then walked into the restaurant. McQuade nudged the door closed with his knee and switched on the lights. He walked over to the tape recorder. As he did his eyes met Malone’s. He made a tentative movement with his head as if to say, How did we ever get into this mess? He depressed the play button. A hollow sound churned forth followed by a click and then Thea Braxton’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.” His tone a shrill. “They are all out of their minds.”

  “Are you nuts calling me here!”

  “I have to talk to you now. They are all crazy.”

  “Aldridge. Calm down and tell me exactly what happened.”

  “They are going to detonate bombs around the city and then all over the country. That Jew’s warehouse in Queens is the first place they’re planning to hit. And they expect us to go along with them.”

  “I will leave the office in five minutes. Meet me in my apartment and we will talk. There has to be a way out of this.”

  “Okay. Do you remember that cop who Stanislaus wanted insurance on?”

  “Mannelli. Yes, I remember him. And I also recall that you were particularly wonderful that evening.” He ignored her and went on speaking rapidly. “They are going after him. After that cop was killed on the expressway, Mannelli put two and two together and threatened to go to the state prosecutor.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. Mannelli is not our concern. What we’re going to do is what concerns me.”

  “And that, brother dear, is what makes life so damnably exciting.”

  The machine clicked off. Obergfoll went around the room opening the blinds. Malone stood, his fists clenched tightly at his side. “Who is going to tell me how this abortion got started and how the hell this department got itself involved?”

  Anderman shot McQuade a look of frustrated helplessness. “Tell him.”

  McQuade started to pace around the table. He punched his palm, stared upward, and said, “I guess it all started several years ago when an oil executive was kidnapped in Latin America and held for a multi-million-dollar ransom. And then on April third, 1977, the FALN blew up the Mobil Oil building in New York City. One person was killed and seven wounded. After the Mobil thing, we started to get a lot of heat from the top management of major corporations with headquarters in New York City. It got worse when Moorehouse formed a ‘citizen’s committee’ to study the protection that the various law-enforcement agencies afforded to companies with their executive headquarters in the city. To make matters more difficult, Moorehouse brought in Washington. Everyone was seeing terrorists under their beds. Up to that point we had no kind of intelligence picture on Arabs, good or bad. We told that to the Agency people and they admitted that Arab nationals can move in and out of New York just as easy as they do in France. Or fucking Algiers or anywhere. The Agency tells us, Why not try a little quiet infiltration?”

  The Chief of Op glared at Anderman. “I tell them that we haven’t got an awful lot of cops who fit the part of Lawrence of Arabia. So they suggest that maybe we can make a deal with people who have a lot of resources in that area. And that was how we got involved with Anderman and his crowd. And I mean crowd. You would not believe how many ‘assets’ the Mossad has got sitting in New York, not to mention God knows how many elsewhere.”

  Anderman interrupted angrily. “We have no more people on the ground here than does any other first-class intelligence operation. From friendly countries. You should be worried about the unfriendly ones. Did you ever take a close look at the Cuban Mission? What do you think such a small island needs with such a big building? You think they store sugarcane there, maybe.”

  McQuade continued as if Anderman was not even in the room. “We believed what the Agency people told us: The Israelis are good at getting their people inside the structure of all the Arab fronts. Trouble is, once we got into bed with Anderman then the whole arms-storage deal was the price tag.”

  McQuade turned and looked pleadingly at Malone. “Look, Lieutenant. This started out being no big deal. We agreed to beef up the department’s surveillance capability. Period. But you know, it gets to be like elephants fucking. There’s a lot of noise, a small earthquake, and it all goes on at a very high level. The order came down from the PC. We gotta have a counterstrike capability. So I agreed, hell, how could I say no? But it was to be a small unit. Its primary mission was to take out suspected terrorists before they struck. They were to employ extra-judicial methods. Zangline could release the Unit only with the explicit authorization of the PC. Fine. Just fine. Until it snowballed and types like these Braxton people got mixed up in it.”

  Anderman stood up, his face flushed with anger. “The Braxtons were misused by your people, just please remember that. Besides, they were small change. The Libyans used them for minor errands, moving their own assets around, occasionally blackmail. We decided to turn them, and then, the minute we started, Zangline stepped in and insisted that he be allowed to use them for infiltration. It was senseless. They had access to nothing. He wouldn’t trust my people. And what your
chief failed to tell you was that it was thoroughly agreed that all the policemen in the Unit were to be psychologically screened. We work with professionals, no meshugas like Stanislaus and the other two.”

  Chief of Op McQuade took an immaculate handkerchief out of his pocket, removed his glasses, and began to polish the lenses thoughtfully. “Zangline. Goddamn him. I backed him one hundred percent. Until you started making waves, Malone. Well, your fitness reports were right on. I figured you were just what they said, a good cop. A commander of men. So, after I failed to buy you off”—he smiled bitterly at Malone, replaced his glasses, and took a sheet of paper from the drawer of his desk—“I called up Jack Breen, Zangline’s exec. It was like Jack was waiting for my call. You know that loyalty comes first on this job, it’s got to. We have to trust each other, particularly when we are running this kind of a crazy show. I ordered Jack to tell me what was really going on, and he did, enough to scare the shit out of me. You see, Anderman is right. The three cops in the middle of this didn’t belong in the Unit. I think that they should have been thrown off the Job a long time ago. Jack Breen told me they’d all failed to pass the psychological profile screening. But fucking Zangline kept them on. He told Jack they’d be used only for training. Said they had the right kind of killer instincts.” The chief shook his head as if he could not believe what he was saying. “Well, at least Zangline was right about that.”

  Malone walked over to Anderman and stood implacably in front of him. Anderman was staring down at his shoes. Malone waited a long time and then in an ominously quiet voice asked: “Where does Carter Moorehouse fit in all this?”

  Anderman continued to stare down. “I don’t know, but I can give you a lot of guesses. Zangline had many connections with Moorehouse, because Moorehouse was on the liaison committee of VIPs who formed the Unit’s oversight board. We were supposed to coordinate our efforts with the private security forces of many companies in the city.” His head shot up and he gave Malone a baffled look. “It’s madness, you know. You can’t mix outside people up in a clandestine operation like this one.” He stopped, thought, and said, “Policeman, I can give you my guess. And I think Joe Mannelli’s guess too. We think Moorehouse was … is funding something private. A unit inside the Unit.”

  Malone shook his head in disbelief. “A hit squad for the elite buried in the department.”

  “What choice did we have? The banks and oil companies hold the first mortgage on this city. They can foreclose any damn time they want,” McQuade said.

  “And this other unit? Who gave the order for its formation, and what is its mission?” Malone asked.

  “I wish that I knew,” McQuade said.

  “Zangline ordered the formation of the official hit squad,” Malone said.

  “It was a deniable undertaking. Top secret. Only hand-picked men were brought into it,” McQuade said.

  Malone glowered at the chief. “It’s no longer deniable, is it. There are too many bodies.” He walked over to McQuade. “Who picked up the tab?”

  McQuade said, “A slush fund of several million dollars was established. Each corporation contributed. They picked one of their own to act as overseer of the money. He was to be the liaison between the department and the business community.”

  “Carter Moorehouse. The piano tuner,” Malone said.

  “Yes,” McQuade said lamely.

  “Very nice,” Malone said. “They set up the Simonson Optical Division in the Netherlands Antilles to launder the money and pay the bills. And I bet there’s another one like it that we don’t know about. And presto, Zangline, Stanislaus, Kelly, and Bramson have their own wishing well full of greenbacks. All they had to do was to get Moorehouse to look the other way while they helped themselves.”

  Malone thought. Why should Moorehouse look the other way? Certainly not for money. And why the bombs? Why risk exposure? Why? Where is the motive? Malone turned and addressed Anderman. “What went wrong? Why was she killed?”

  Anderman took out a cigarette and started to tap it end over end. All of a sudden he broke it in half and threw the ends on the floor. “You want it all, policeman? All right, you can have it all. Sara was training your men in the use of simple codes when she met Stanislaus. They started to see each other. When I discovered their relationship I ordered her to stop. I told her that fraternization with policemen would make her position with us untenable. She told me that her life was hers to lead as she saw fit. We fought. She quit and went with Stanislaus. He got her a job with the Braxtons. I tried to get her to come to her senses, but it was no use. She started to socialize with Stanislaus and his friends, and saw that they had unlimited funds to spend. She became suspicious and telephoned me. She started to ask me questions about the Unit’s financing. I asked her what was wrong and she told me. By this time she had become bored with Stanislaus and wanted to come back. I told her to stay with him and try to find out what they were doing. It was at this point that I was able to plant Andrea St. James in the Interlude. Sara was told never to contact me directly. She was to communicate through Andrea. They telephoned each other every day. Sara was onto something.

  “She started to mention her Bible and the song. She could never say too much on the phone. One of the Braxtons or the cops were always around. When Andrea informed me about Landsford I never made the connection with the fort. Some army officer, she said.”

  Anderman got up and walked over to a filing cabinet. He opened the top drawer, pulled some folders to the front, and then slammed the drawer shut and walked away, aimlessly pacing the room. He appeared to be a man lost within himself, searching for the right turnoff. The City’s flag was in the corner. He unfurled it, studying the emblem. He let it drop and returned to his seat. He looked into each man’s face and then lowered himself into the chair, ready to continue his narrative.

  “The Thursday before she was killed, Sara spent the night in his apartment. She was in the bathroom getting ready for him. She discovered the list and the film hidden under some rags inside the vanity. She recognized the locations on the list. She took them and hid them in her pocketbook and then went into his bed. In the morning he asked her to marry him. She was caught off guard and laughed. She saw the look that crossed his face and quickly regained her composure. She told him that she liked the relationship the way it was. Her parents would never consent to such a marriage.” He looked up at Malone. “You see, policeman, in many ways Sara was a troubled woman. She was only able to have intense relationships with gentile men. One short affair after the other. When the man would get serious with her she would end it. A tormentor of gentiles. Unfortunately, the children of the Holocaust did not escape unscathed.

  “Stanislaus became enraged. He had left his family for her. He was in love with her. Sara realized that she was in danger and asked him for time. Perhaps she could work out something with her parents, she told him. She left his apartment and rushed home. She phoned me immediately and told me what had happened. I told her to leave and come to me. She was petrified that she might meet him in the street. She was afraid that he could have discovered the list and film missing and might be on his way to her apartment. Of course, she should have come to me instead of going home. But she panicked. I tried to calm her but it was no use. So, I did the next best thing. I told her to lock all her doors and let no one in. I was on my way to her. I should have been there within the hour.” He cupped his hands over his face and started to shake his head. “Ancorie and I rushed out. We took the BQE to the Williamsburgh Bridge. A three-car accident happened up ahead of us and we were stuck in the middle of the bridge for over forty minutes.” He took his hands away. “When we arrived at her apartment we found the door ajar. Sara was dead in the bathtub. He must have discovered the things missing from his bathroom and rushed over to her apartment. From the look of the place he had help.”

  Malone unconsciously felt the wound on his head. “And then you locked the door behind you and left.”

  “What else could we do?”
said David Ancorie.

  “Was it Stanislaus who used to call Sara at the office?”

  “Yes,” said Anderman, “he was always calling her. It was his way of checking on her. Making sure she was where she was supposed to be. He would talk to her in Polish and German.”

  “Who picked Zangline to run the Unit?” Malone asked McQuade.

  “The mayor. But I know Moorehouse engineered it. They knew each other from Moorehouse’s political days,” McQuade said.

  Malone rushed over to the telephone on McQuade’s desk.

  “What are you doing?” McQuade asked.

  “I’m going to try to stop this thing before it’s too late,” Malone said, dialing.

  Det. Sergeant Jack Harrigan answered the telephone inside the surveillance van.

  “Jack, where are the suspects?” Malone said, an anxious edge to his voice.

  “I have been trying to get in touch with you,” Harrigan shouted. “Marku and Yaziji showed up at the Braxtons’ apartment and took them for a ride in a rented car. They are on the FDR Drive. Stanislaus, Kelly, and Bramson are in another car behind them.”

  “What is their location?” Malone said.

  “Hold on.” Malone could hear the Nest communicating with its Birds. Static replies brayed in the background. Then the sergeant’s hurried voice. “The drive and Seventy-first Street, heading north.”

  “Scoop them all up,” Malone ordered.

  “Ten-four.”

  Malone said, “I am going to keep this line open. Stay with me and let me know when you have them in custody. I have to call the Squad, but I will get right back to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Malone pressed the hold button and then took an outside line.

  “We couldn’t figure out where everyone went,” Bo Davis said.

  Malone said, “Never mind that now. Did you execute the warrant?”