by Mario Puzo
“Do not arrest them under any circumstances,” the director told him. “Everything would come out in the media, and we’d be a joke. And don’t fool with Nicole Aprile unless you have the goods on her. Keep everything top secret, and we’ll see what happens tomorrow night. Guards at your house have been alerted, and your family is already being moved out as we speak. Now put Bill on the phone. He’ll run the ambush operation.”
“Sir, that should be my job,” Cilke protested.
“You’ll help with the planning,” the director said, “but under no circumstance will you take part in the tactical operation. The Bureau operates under very strict rules of engagement to avoid unnecessary violence. You would be suspect if things go bad. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Cilke understood perfectly.
CHAPTER 12
AFTER A MONTH in the hospital Aspinella Washington was released but still had to heal sufficiently for the insertion of an artificial eye. A splendid physical specimen, her body seemed to assemble itself around her injuries. True, her left foot dragged a little, and her eye socket looked hideous. But she wore a square green eye patch instead of black, and the dark green accentuated the beauty of her mocha skin. She reported back to work wearing a costume of black trousers, a green pullover shirt, and a green leather coat. When she looked at herself in the mirror she thought herself a striking figure.
Though she was on medical leave she would sometimes go in to the Detective Bureau headquarters and help in interrogations. Her injury gave her a sense of liberation—she felt like she could do anything, and she stretched her power.
On her first interrogation there were two suspects, an unusual pair in that one was white and one was black. The white suspect, about thirty, was immediately frightened of her. But the black partner was delighted by the tall beautiful woman with the green eye patch and the cold level stare. This was one cool sister.
“Holy shit,” he cried out, his face happy. It was his first bust, he had no criminal record, and he really didn’t know he was in serious trouble. He and his partner had broken into a home, tied up the husband and wife, and then looted the house. They had been laid low by an informant. The black kid was still wearing the house owner’s Rolex watch. He said cheerily to Aspinella, without malice, indeed in a voice of admiration, “Hey, Captain Kidd, you gonna make us walk the plank?”
The other detectives in the room smirked at this foolishness. But Aspinella didn’t respond. The kid was in handcuffs and couldn’t ward off her blow. Snakelike, her truncheon crashed against his face, breaking his nose and splitting his cheekbone. He didn’t go down; his knees sagged, and he gave her a reproachful look. His face was a mess of blood. Then his legs folded and he toppled to the ground. For the next ten minutes Aspinella beat him unmercifully. As if from a fresh spring, blood started to flow from the boy’s ears.
“Jesus,” one of the detectives said, “how the hell do we question him now?”
“I didn’t want to talk to him,” Aspinella said. “I want to talk to this guy.” She pointed her truncheon to the white suspect. “Zeke, right? I want to talk to you, Zeke.” She took him roughly by the shoulder and threw him into a chair facing her desk. He stared at her, terrified. She realized her eye patch had slipped to one side and that Zeke was staring into that empty orb. She reached up and adjusted the patch to cover her milky socket.
“Zeke,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully. I want to save time here. I want to know how you got this kid into this. How you got into this. Understand? Are you going to cooperate?”
Zeke had turned very pale. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“OK,” Aspinella said to another detective. “Get that kid into the medical ward and send down the video people to take Zeke’s confession of his own free will.”
As they were setting up the monitors, Aspinella said to Zeke, “Who fenced your goods? Who gave you information about your target? Give me the exact details of the robbery. Your partner is obviously a nice kid. He has no record and he’s not that smart. That’s why I took it easy on him. Now, you, Zeke, have a very distinguished record, so I figure you’re the Fagin that got him into this. So start rehearsing for the video.”
When Aspinella left the station house she drove her car over the Southern State Parkway to Brightwaters, Long Island.
Oddly enough, she found driving with one eye was more pleasurable than not. The landscape was more interesting because it was focused, like some futuristic painting that dissolved into dreams around the edges. It was as if half the world, the globe itself, had been bisected and the half she could see claimed more attention.
Finally she was driving through Brightwaters and passing John Heskow’s house. She could see his car in the driveway and a man carrying a huge azalea plant from the flower shed to the house. Then another man came out of the shed carrying a box filled with yellow flowers. This was interesting, she thought. They were emptying the flower shed.
While in the hospital she had done research on John Heskow. She had gone through the New York State car-registration records and found his address. Then she checked all the criminal databases and found that John Heskow was really Louis Ricci; the bastard was Italian, though he looked like a German pudding. But his criminal record was clear. He had been arrested several times for extortion and assault but never convicted. The flower shed could not generate the amount of money to support his style of living.
She had done all this because she had figured out that the only one who could have put the finger on her and Di Benedetto was Heskow. The only thing that puzzled her was that he had given them the money. That money had put the Internal Affairs Bureau on her ass, but she had soon gotten rid of their unenthusiastic inquiries, since they were happy to have the money for themselves. Now she was preparing to get rid of Heskow.
Twenty-four hours before the scheduled assault on Cilke, Heskow drove to Kennedy airport for his flight to Mexico City, where he would disappear from the civilized world with fake passports he had prepared years ago.
Details had been settled. The flower sheds had been emptied; his ex-wife would take care of selling the house and put the proceeds in the bank for their son’s college expenses. Heskow had told her he would be away for two years. He told his son the same story, over dinner at Shun Lee’s.
It was early evening when he got to the airport. He checked two suitcases, all he needed, except for the one hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills taped around his body in small pouches. He was wallpapered with money for immediate expenses, and he had a secret account in the Caymans, holding nearly five million dollars. Thank God, because he certainly could not apply for Social Security. He was proud that he had lived a prudent life and had not squandered his bankroll on gambling, women, or other foolishness.
Heskow checked in for his flight and boarding pass. Now he only carried a briefcase with his false ID and passports. He had left his car at permanent parking; his ex-wife would pick it up and hold it for him.
He was at least an hour early for his flight. He felt a little uneasy being unarmed, but he had to pass the detectors to get on the flight, and he would be able to get plenty of weaponry from his contacts in Mexico City.
To pass the time he bought some magazines in the bookshop and then went to the terminal cafeteria. He loaded up a tray with dessert and coffee and sat down at one of the small tables. He looked through the magazines and ate his dessert, a false strawberry tart covered with fake whipped cream. Suddenly he was aware that someone was sitting down at his table. He looked up and saw Detective Aspinella Washington. Like everyone, he was entranced by the square, dark green eye patch. It gave him a flutter of panic. She looked much more beautiful than he remembered.
“Hi, John,” she said. “You never did come to visit me in the hospital.”
He was so flustered he took her seriously. “You know I couldn’t do that, Detective. But I was sorry to hear about your misfo
rtune.”
Aspinella gave him a huge smile. “I was kidding, John. But I did want to have a little chat with you before your flight.”
“Sure,” Heskow said. He expected he would have to pay off, and he had ten grand in the briefcase ready for just such surprises. “I’m glad to see you looking so well. I was worried about you.”
“No shit,” Aspinella said, her one eye glittering like a hawk’s. “Too bad about Paul. We were good friends, you know, besides his being my boss.”
“That was a shame,” Heskow said. He even gave a little cluck, which made Aspinella smile.
“I don’t have to show you my badge,” Aspinella said. “Right?” She paused. “I want you to come with me to a little interrogation room we have here in the terminal. Give me some good interesting answers, and you can catch your flight.”
“OK,” Heskow said. He rose to his feet clutching his briefcase.
“And no funny business or I’ll shoot you dead. Funny thing, I’m a better shot with just one eye.” She rose and took his arm and led him to a stairway up to the mezzanine, which held the administrative offices of the airlines. She led him down a long hallway and unlocked an office door. Heskow was surprised not only by the largeness of the room but by the banks of TV monitors on the walls, at least twenty screens, monitored by two men who sat in soft armchairs and studied them as they ate sandwiches and drank coffee. One of the men stood up and said, “Hey, Aspinella, what’s up?”
“I’m going to have a private chat with this guy in the interrogation room. Lock us in.”
“Sure,” the man said. “You want one of us in there with you?”
“Nah. It’s just a friendly chat.”
“Oh, one of your famous friendly chats,” the man said, and laughed. He looked at Heskow closely. “I saw you on the screens down in the terminal. Strawberry tart, right?” He led them to a door in the back of the room and unlocked it. After Heskow and Aspinella entered the interrogation room he locked the door behind them.
Heskow was reassured now that there were other people involved. The interrogation chamber was disarming, with a couch, a desk, and three comfortable-looking chairs. In one corner was a watercooler with paper cups. The pink walls were decorated with photographs and paintings of flying machines.
Aspinella made Heskow sit in a chair facing the desk, on which she sat and looked down at him.
“Can we get on with it?” Heskow asked. “I cannot afford to miss that flight.”
Aspinella didn’t answer. She reached out and took Heskow’s briefcase from his lap. Heskow twitched. She opened it and leafed through the contents, including the stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. She studied one of the false passports, then put everything back in the briefcase and returned it to him.
“You’re a very clever man,” she said. “You knew it was time to run. Who told you I was after you?”
“Why would you be after me?” Heskow asked. He was more confident now that she had given him back his briefcase.
Aspinella lifted her eye patch so that he could see the wretched crater. But Heskow did not flinch; he had seen much worse in his day.
“You cost me that eye,” she said. “Only you could have informed and set Paul and me up.”
Heskow spoke with the utmost sincerity, which had been one of his best weapons in his profession. “You’re wrong, absolutely wrong. If I did that, I would have kept the money—you can see that. Look, I really have to catch that flight.” He unbuttoned his shirt and tore a piece of tape. Two packets of money appeared on the table. “That’s yours, and the money in the briefcase. That’s thirty grand.”
“Gee,” Aspinella said. “Thirty grand. That’s a lot of money for just one eye. OK. But you have to tell me the name of the guy who paid you to set us up.”
Heskow made up his mind. His one chance was to get on that flight. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. He had dealt with too many homicidal maniacs in his line of work to misjudge her.
“Listen, believe me,” he said. “I never dreamed this guy would knock off two high-ranking cops. I just made a deal with Astorre Viola so he could hide out. I never dreamed he would do such a thing.”
“Good,” Aspinella said. “Now, who paid you for the hit on him?”
“Paul knew,” Heskow said. “Didn’t he tell you? Timmona Portella.”
At that Aspinella felt a surge of rage. Her fat partner had not only been a lousy fuck but a lying bastard as well.
“Stand up,” she said to Heskow. Suddenly a gun appeared in her hand.
Heskow was terrified. He had seen that look before, only he had not been the victim. For one moment he thought of his hidden five million dollars that would die with him, unclaimed, and the five million dollars seemed a living creature. What a tragedy. “No,” he cried out, and huddled his body further into the chair. Aspinella grabbed his hair with her free hand and pulled him to his feet. She held the gun away from his neck and fired. Heskow seemed to fly out of her grasp and crashed to the floor. She knelt by his body. Half his throat had been blown away. Then she took her throwaway gun from its ankle holster, placed it in Heskow’s hand, and stood up. She could hear the door being unlocked, and then the two screen men rushed in with guns drawn.
“I had to shoot him,” she said. “He tried to bribe me and then he pulled a gun. Call the terminal medical van and I’ll call homicide myself. Don’t touch anything, and don’t let me out of your sight.”
. . .
The next night Portella launched his attack. Cilke’s wife and daughter had already been spirited away to a restricted heavily guarded FBI station in California. Cilke, at the director’s orders, was at FBI headquarters in New York with his full staff on duty. Bill Boxton had been given the overall command of the special task force and would spring the trap at Cilke’s house. The rules of engagement were strict, however. The Bureau didn’t want a bloodbath that would cause complaint from liberal groups. The FBI team would not fire unless it was fired upon. Every effort would be made to give the attackers a chance to surrender.
As an assistant planning officer, Kurt Cilke met with Boxton and the special task force’s commander, a comparatively young man of thirty-five whose face was set in the rigid lines of command. But his skin was gray and he had a regrettable dimple in his chin. His name was Sestak and his accent was pure Harvard. They met in Cilke’s office.
“I expect you to be in constant communication with me during the operation,” Cilke said. “The rules of engagement will be strictly observed.”
“Don’t worry,” Boxton said. “We have a hundred men with firepower that exceeds theirs. They will surrender.”
Sestak said in a soft voice, “I have another hundred men to establish a perimeter. We let them in but we don’t let them out.”
“Good,” Cilke said. “When you capture them you will ship them to our New York interrogation center. I’m not permitted to take part in the interrogation, but I want information as soon as possible.”
“What if something goes wrong and they wind up dead?” Sestak asked.
“Then there will be an internal investigation and the director will be very unhappy. Now, here’s the reality: They will be arrested for conspiracy to commit murder, and they will get out on bail. Then they will vanish into South America. So we have only a few days to interrogate them.”
Boxton looked at Cilke with a little smile. Sestak said to Cilke in his cultured tone, “I think that would make you terribly unhappy.”
“Sure, it bothers me,” Cilke said. “But the director has to worry about political complications. Conspiracy charges are always tricky.”
“I see,” Sestak said. “So your hands are tied.”
“That’s right,” Cilke said.
Boxton said quietly, “It’s a damn shame, they can attempt the murder of a federal officer and get off.”
Sestak was looking at them both with an amused smile. His gray skin took on a reddish tinge. “You’re preaching to the choir,” he said. “Anyway, these oper
ations always go wrong. Guys with guns always think they can’t be shot. Very funny thing about human nature.”
That night Boxton accompanied Sestak to the operational area around Cilke’s home in New Jersey. Lights had been left on in the house to make it look like someone was home. Also there were three cars parked in the driveway to give the impression that the house guards were inside. The cars were booby-trapped so that if they were started, they would blow up. Otherwise Boxton could see nothing.
“Where the hell are your hundred men?” Boxton asked Sestak.
Sestak gave him a huge grin. “Pretty good, huh? They’re all around here, and even you can’t see them. They already have lines of fire. When the attackers come in, the road will be sealed behind them. We’ll have a basket full of rats.”
Boxton remained at Sestak’s side at a command post fifty yards from the house. With them was a communications team of four men who wore camouflage to match the patch of woods they used as cover. Sestak and his team were armed with rifles, but Boxton only had his handgun.
“I don’t want you in the fighting,” Sestak told Boxton. “Besides, that weapon you carry is useless here.”
“Why not?” Boxton said. “I’ve been waiting my whole career to shoot the bad guys.”
Sestak laughed. “Not today. My team is protected by executive order from any legal inquiries or prosecution. You’re not.”
“But I’m in command,” Boxton said.
“Not when we become operational,” Sestak told him coolly. “Then I’m in sole command. I make all the decisions. Even the director can’t supersede me.”
They waited together in the darkness. Boxton looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to midnight. One of the communications team whispered to Sestak, “Five cars filled with men are on approach to the house. The road behind them has been sealed. Estimated time of arrival is five minutes.
Sestak was wearing infrared goggles that gave him night vision. “OK,” he said. “Send the word. Don’t fire unless fired upon or at my order.”