by Robert Daley
The bane of all law enforcement officers, Powers reflected: the screams of the indignant rich.
Glickman said, “We’ll check the incoming passengers closely. We’ll go through the cargo with care. We’ll send a team through the crew’s quarters. Unless you can come up with something more specific, there’s not much more we can do. If we find something, that will be great. But don’t count on it.”
“How about informants?” said Powers.
“We’ll keep after our informants,” conceded Glickman. “Maybe somebody will come up with something.”
“I doubt it’s even that ship,” said Byrne.
“A wiretap, maybe,” said Powers.
“On who?” inquired Glickman. When Powers did not answer, he said, “You cops put rather too much dependence on wiretaps, I’ve always thought.”
Powers dropped his gaze.
The meeting ended on that note. Powers trailed Wilcoxon back to his office, and when both had entered he closed the door.
“I want to arrest Marco and Casagrande,” he said. “I want to shake up the whole crowd. I want to make something happen. But I don’t have enough on either of them. Your guys have been watching them. What do you have?”
“Not much,” responded Wilcoxon. “I told you that already. You’re welcome to it. We made some observations of Marco meeting with known criminals. Since he’s on parole, you can lock him up for that, but it probably won’t stick.”
“Why not?”
“Because the known criminals are relatives.”
“What about Casagrande?”
Wilcoxon withdrew a file from his desk drawer. “I’ll make copies of this. You can take it with you.”
At the other end of the hall O’Reilly, having walked the two customs officers to the elevator, had returned to his own office. As he passed her, his secretary said: “The police commissioner’s returning your call, sir.”
O’Reilly stepped to his desk and took up the phone.
EACH NIGHT Powers received Luang’s report at home by phone: Koy did not enter Little Italy, his routine seemed unchanged since last time, and there was no sign of any “other woman.” There were reports also from Kelly, but these were no more promising. Although he and every detective in the squad were out pounding on informants, there were as yet no leads.
Each night Eleanor phoned the precinct for him for messages. There was only one significant one the first night: report to the chief of patrol forthwith. On the second night the same message was repeated, but on the third there was a difference: Report to the police commissioner forthwith.
This order he thought he had best obey. He had run out of personals. His time was up. He was obliged like any factory worker to go to work, to punch in, step behind the big desk at the Fifth Precinct station house and sign the blotter, thereby resuming his command and exposing the nape of his neck to his superiors. His job after that was to phone the PC’s office to say he was on his way down there. Police Plaza lay about six blocks south. Powers walked it, dragging his feet. He knew he would be kept waiting in an anteroom, perhaps for hours.
He had left word that if Kelly or Luang called in, they were to phone Powers there.
Police Headquarters. A fourteen-story brick cube. Its walls, as he approached, looked three feet thick. Into them small windows had been set like nearsighted police eyes, like embrasures in medieval castles. The building looked like what it was, thought Powers, crossing Police Plaza: a fortress. It was such a heavy, monolithic building as to strike fear into the hearts of most men who entered it, including now himself. In a corner office on the fourteenth floor in a few minutes the future of his career and life would probably be determined. The decision would be made by certain of the men who inhabited this castle. In the police world the laws of feudalism still applied. From that decision Powers would have no more right of appeal than any of those men who, for thousands of years, had lived like him in the shadow of the castle walls.
When he entered the PC’s anteroom, the deputy inspector who was chief secretary ordered him curtly to take a seat.
“Chief Duncan is in with him now,” he snapped.
“That’s nice,” said Powers. The man’s bad manners brought a grim smile to Powers’ face. There, he had his answer already. One entered the anterooms of great men and read the verdict instantly in the deportment of their secretaries. Was the secretary cordial? Charming? No? Too bad. In a sense secretaries usurped the roles of their masters, and ought to be disciplined for it. They warned the victim quite thoroughly in advance. He knew about the waiting axe before he ever got through the throne-room door. After that, actually dropping it on him could not be nearly as much fun.
The deputy inspector had buried his head in some papers. When he glanced up Powers beamed him a big smile. False, but big.
The phone rang.
“That may be for me,” said Powers, to bedevil him. After three days he had as little hope left in Kelly and the detectives as in Luang. They could not even find Orchid Koy, who perhaps had not come to New York yet. If she delayed much longer she would be too late to figure in even the most desperate of Powers’ fallback plans.
“For you,” said the deputy inspector. “Make it short.”
Powers, giving the man another smile, took the phone. “Yes, Luang?”
Luang was at the airport. Koy had gone inside and the limousine had pulled into the service lane to wait for him. Maybe Koy was meeting the anticipated female.
Anticipated female? More and more Luang talked like a typical New York cop. It just didn’t go with the way he looked and with how hard he worked.
“What terminal are you at?”
Several airlines used the terminal, it seemed. British Airways, Air Jamaica, Air Canada.
Powers interrupted him. “Air Canada sounds right. Call me back as soon as you have more news - either here or back in the precinct.”
Powers went back and sat down. He had the feeling that something at last was happening, and this time the smile he sent across the room was real - so real that the deputy inspector, intercepting it, dropped his eyes in annoyance: the condemned man refused to act condemned.
When the traffic lights changed color over the PC’s door, the deputy inspector said curtly, “The PC will see you now.”
Powers went in. The PC in shirtsleeves sat behind his desk. To his right in uniform, as upright as a judge, as unsmiling and as unfriendly as Powers had ever seen him, stood Chief of Patrol Duncan. Powers wore his summer street uniform: blue shirt and black tie, his gold captain’s shield pinned over his left breast, his service revolver riding over his right hip, and he carried his cap, which bore less gold braid than Duncan’s, under his arm.
The questioning, if that’s what it could be called, was begun by Duncan. “A junket to Hong Kong, that’s what you went on. Did you take your wife?”
“No, I did not take my wife,” said Powers, speaking slowly, carefully. He had resolved not to be provoked. He believed he had little enough chance to survive this hearing. He was in no position to buy himself luxuries. Anger, to Powers, was like a mink coat. It would warm him up, but its cost was prohibitive.
“How about side trips?” demanded Duncan. “Did you take an excursion into Red China?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you take a girl friend? I’ve been hearing stories about you. Did you take a girl friend?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Stories? What stories? Explain yourself.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
The PC intervened. “Easy, Don.” He stood up and came out from behind his desk. He began circling like a prosecutor, like a shark. Powers had to shift position in order to track him. He said, “The only justification for your trip would be results. And you have no results. Or do you? Let’s talk about results.”
“No immediate results, no,” said Captain Powers. “But-”
“But what?” demanded Duncan.
“I don’t consider the tri
p a total waste. I put two corrupt Hong Kong cops in jail and-”
“That is of no conceivable interest to us.”
“Well it should be. We’re cops. Our job is to protect the good people and to put the bad ones in jail - whatever their nationality.”
Momentarily at least, this silenced Duncan. “All right,” said the PC, “I’ll grant you that much. What else?”
Powers said: “There is a chance - I have a plan, an idea that-”
The PC stopped circling. “Chance? Plan?”
“Commissioner, I went to Hong Kong to gather evidence against the mayor of Chinatown, Mr. Koy. I was hoping for something that would prove him part of an international conspiracy. I intend to continue my investigation. I did pick up a lot of information in Hong Kong that could be exactly what we need to bring the investigation to a successful conclusion.” A long, dull speech even to Powers himself. After the barest possible hesitation he added: “Sir.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said Duncan.
The PC and Duncan waited for further details but Powers’ mouth became set in a thin hard line, and he refused to give any.
“Do you realize how much money your junket cost the City?” said Duncan. “The City is broke. The police department is broke. And you squander money on a useless junket. If the press gets wind of this, there’s no way it can be defended.”
He had a point there, and Powers knew it, but this was no time to concede ground. “The press is not going to get wind of it,” he said.
“Oh no? That ain’t the way I heard it, buddy boy.”
Powers shouted, “If you’ve got something to say, say it. And if you don’t, shut up.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the PC. He turned to Powers. “I want to hear about your plan.”
Powers said, “And so you shall, just as soon as I have it worked out, sir.”
“I’m afraid you misunderstood me.” The PC’s voice had become icy. “I said I want to hear about it right now.”
When Powers did not answer, the PC said, “What kind of idiots do you take us for? Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to? The Rotterdam docked at 8 A.M. The passengers and their luggage are already off. Nothing. Your plan isn’t a plan at all, it’s a pipedream. O’Reilly says you have no evidence whatsoever that the heroin is on that particular ship. Even if it is, according to Glickman, Customs probably won’t be able to find it.”
Powers stared at him. The only thing that made the moment bearable at all was that Duncan was staring too. The chief of patrol was as surprised as he was.
The PC said, “Who gave you the authority to go to Drug Enforcement, to call in Customs?”
Duncan had recovered from his surprise. “Going to outside agencies is not your job, it’s the chief of detectives’ job.”
“I wasn’t aware that going to other agencies for information or help was a crime,” said Powers to the PC. Again he added carefully: “sir.”
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice.”
Powers said nothing.
“Is that all?” demanded the PC. When he got no reply from Powers, he turned to the chief of patrol: “Don?”
“It will take me twenty-four hours to get a new man in your precinct,” said Duncan. “You are relieved of command as of this time tomorrow.”
The sentence had been imposed. It was only what Powers had expected, and there could be no appeal. The most he could ask for was a stay of execution. Turning to the PC, Powers said, “Sir, if I may respectfully point out something that the chief of patrol has overlooked-”
He again fell silent. He had just been fired, and it was only what he deserved - impossible at the moment to convince himself otherwise. Not his fault? Of course it was his fault. These men were correct to dismiss him. The trip to Hong Kong was wasted, the heroin was not on the Rotterdam, he was inadequate as a precinct commander, and most likely a failure as a man as well.
“Overlooked?” demanded the PC. “Go on, man.” Powers saw he had created the effect he had hoped for. The PC had read a threat in there, and Powers struggled to put it to use. A single word might give him back life - or the illusion of life.
“Sir, if I could have another week or two, I think I can bring this investigation to a head. Even if we come up empty as far as the Rotterdam is concerned, I think I can promise you some important arrests-” Wrong start.
“No,” said Duncan.
Powers, trying to ignore him, hoping the PC would do the same, said, “If I am removed from the Fifth Precinct tomorrow, the investigation on which we have expended so much money, so many man-hours, will result in no arrests at all.” Too wordy. Last chance coming up. “As Chief Duncan pointed out a moment ago, the police department would not look very good in the newspapers.”
Duncan and the PC were both staring at him. Powers could meet only one pair of eyes at a time; he chose the PC’s - and stared him down.
An empty victory, or a real one? Which was it? The PC walked over to the window and peered out.
At last he turned. “Arrests? Significant arrests? How much chance there? Don’t lie to me.”
“I’ve spoken to them at the DA’s office. I’m going over and pick up the warrants when I leave here,” said Powers.
“Warrants?” said Duncan. “Warrants on who?”
Tell him nothing, Powers thought. But he did not dare do it. “I’m hoping to arrest a part of the conspiracy, at least,” he said.
“Koy? Have you got Koy?”
The only question that counted. “At the moment, no,” said Powers. “But I’m hoping-”
“You can’t have a week,” said the PC, still staring out the window. “A week is too long.” He turned abruptly. “Shall we give him two days? Is that all right, Don?”
“That’s not even time enough to execute my warrants,” said Powers.
“If you get any warrants,” said Duncan.
“Very well,” the PC continued. “Nail Koy, or find the shipment of heroin. You can have until the Rotterdam leaves here.”
Powers turned to stare at Duncan - who was smiling. No one showed him out. As he left the room, his shirt was soaked. A rivulet of sweat slid like a downhill skier down the groove of his back.
An hour later Powers stood before the district attorney’s desk. “I want as many warrants as you’ll give me.” He pushed a list across, and for a moment the district attorney studied it: Marco, Casagrande, Han, Low, and Koy.
But the DA began shaking his head almost at once. “I told you this the other day. A warrant on Koy is out of the question. Legally speaking you have no more on him now than you had six months ago. I would need something hard. I was hoping you’d bring hard evidence back from Hong Kong, but you didn’t, sorry to say. On the surface at least, Koy is a pillar of the Chinese community. He’s a heavy contributor to the Democratic Party. The answer on Koy is no.
Powers said stubbornly, “What about the others?”
The DA sighed. “You don’t have much on them either. Even youth gang leaders and Mafia drug dealers have civil rights, you know. I don’t want to be criticized by the press.” He stood up and came around in front of his desk. “I’ll put you together with some of my people,” he said. “It’s up to you to convince them of the legal merits in each case. I won’t interfere. You’ll be here the rest of the day, I expect.” He clapped Powers on the shoulder. “I wish I had better news for you.”
By the time he got back to the station house it was late afternoon. In his office he hung his cap and gunbelt behind the door, loosened his tie, and from behind his desk phoned Customs. The Rotterdam’s cargo had come off and had been carefully inspected, Glickman told him. There were crates and crates of Edam cheeses. You couldn’t cut open every cheese. There were crates and crates of Heineken’s beer. You couldn’t open every bottle. Barring a specific tip you couldn’t drill into the shipment of Danish furniture or cut into the tires of about fifty German-built cars. So far, nothing had been found, which wasn’t su
rprising. Inspection teams had gone aboard and had scoured about a third of the ship. They would finish tomorrow.
Powers hung up. After a moment he lifted his briefcase onto the desk top. Opening it, he stared in at the thin packet of warrants; a hand of very low cards in a high-stakes game.
When he glanced up, Luang stood in the doorway.
He thought Luang must have lost Koy and returned for instructions. What else could it be? That meant another day gone with no results - and so few remaining.
“Koy’s at the funeral parlor, Captain. I figured I could leave him there awhile.” Luang, as he extracted a notebook from the pocket of his seersucker suit, was behaving with unaccustomed confidence. He was almost strutting. “I thought you might want to hear what I’ve got.”
Why is he being so theatrical, Powers asked himself. His mind felt weighted down with depression. The process of thinking was as slow as the moving around of sofas. Luang said, “At the airport this morning he picked up a Chinese female about his own age - about your age, Captain. She had four pieces of luggage. Going to stay awhile, right? If she came in by Air Canada, it was probably flight three twenty-one from Toronto. We could check the airline’s manifest, if you think it worthwhile.”
Powers was still studying the contents of his briefcase.
“The limo took them to Ten Confucius Plaza. The bodyguards carried the bags inside, and then drove away, and Koy did not come down again for two and a half hours.”
“Luang,” said Powers, and looked up at him.
“I watched all sorts of things get delivered, Captain: flowers, some rugs, a king-sized bed. It wasn’t hard to find out what apartment the stuff was going to - 32N. It was on all the delivery tickets, along with the name Orchid Koy.”
The Chinese police officer, having brought home the information he believed his commander wanted, looked extremely pleased with himself.
“The apartment is rented to Jimmy and Orchid Koy, joint tenants. I checked it out.”
“Luang,” said Powers, thinking: he expects to be congratulated and I can’t bring myself to do it.