She had come from a warm, stable family, three generations of farmers on the same land. She was the one who had broken loose to come to New York, to discover the world. She thought of herself as a rebel, but what she really wanted was the same stability and order that she grew up with, but in a different wrapping. She had thought Cassidy would give it to her, and for a while he had thought that he could, that he wanted to, but from the beginning he knew somewhere inside him he would not. She cried easily out of happiness as well as sadness, and wore her emotions close to the surface, while his were buried so deep they’d need, she said, dynamite for the excavation. Except anger. He could tap anger. Gwen was a believer in a place for everything, in straight lines and squared corners, but now his disorder was slowly overwhelming her neatness, like a jungle taking back a cleared field.
* * *
New York was at its best that morning, clean from the rain, bright and fresh. Women in their spring dresses were heartbreakingly beautiful, full of promise, released from the prison of winter. People walked with light steps, and cabbies forgot to blow their horns. A good day to be alive.
The air in the Bellevue morgue was heavy with chemicals and the smell of corrupting flesh. There were two bodies on gurneys in the hall. The first was an old man, gray in death, with sunken cheeks and a nose like a blade, his mouth open to reveal a few long, yellow teeth. The other was a young Hispanic woman. Her slashed throat gaped, her eyes were wide as if in surprise at what had happened to her.
Cassidy found Skinner leaning against the big green multicompartmented cooler in which they stored the random body parts that often turned up in the city: legs, torsos, arms, an occasional head without a body. Skinner was eating a liverwurst sandwich and drinking a Coke he kept cool in one of the smaller compartments.
“You look like shit, Cassidy. What happened to you?”
“Let’s go take a look at Ingram.”
“We can’t.” Skinner rewrapped half his sandwich in waxed paper, pounded the cap on the half-drunk Coke with the heel of his hand, slid his lunch into the cooler, and closed the door.
“Why not?” Cassidy lit a cigarette against the chemical taste that was coating the back of his throat.
“He’s not here.”
By law, violent death in the city delivered the body to the Bellevue morgue for autopsy. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know. A couple of guys showed up and took him away.”
“A couple of guys? Just like that? Excuse me, Mr. Skinner, you got an extra stiff lying around we could use for the day?”
“No. Not just like that. What do you think? They had the authority.”
“What authority?”
“They had a guy with them from the district attorney’s office. Piccardi. One of the assistant DAs. You’ve seen him around. Funny-looking mouth, wet lips.”
“Who were the guys?”
“I don’t know. Guys you don’t argue with.”
“Did they show you credentials?”
“They didn’t show me anything. Piccardi was their credential.” He tossed it off, but Cassidy could see he didn’t like it, didn’t like someone coming into his place and changing the order of things.
“They sign the body out?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Show me.”
The two signatures scrawled in the ledger could have spelled liverwurst. Skinner described the two men, one tall, thin, sallow, the other big, red faced, overweight, both of them wearing business suits. “Like accountants or something, but not. You know what I mean?”
“Did you do the cut?”
Skinner was uncomfortable. “Look, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. They said, don’t talk to anyone. Anybody asks, you don’t know anything. That’s what they said.”
“Al.”
“Uh-uh. These were not guys to screw with.”
Cassidy took his wallet out. Skinner looked away. “Ah, Jesus, come on, Cassidy.” Cassidy took out a ten, then another, then another. “Shit. Okay. You didn’t hear anything from me.”
“I was never here.”
Skinner took the money. “I did the cut before they showed up. There was a contusion at the back of the head. A sap, a piece of pipe, something heavy. That’s probably what put him down so the guy could tie him up. You saw the wounds from the pliers, but the guy died of a myocardial infarction.”
“A heart attack?”
“Yup.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Weird in a young guy like that, but you never know what stress’ll do. Someone starts going at you with pliers, things pop. You can’t imagine the kind of pain this guy endured. At one point, he bit through his tongue.”
“So the guy who did it didn’t get what he wanted.”
“How do you figure?”
“He was still working on him when the heart attack killed him, so Ingram never gave it up. Whatever it is, it’s still out there.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
* * *
At midday the squad room was quiet.
“What are you doing?”
The man looked up from searching Cassidy’s desk. A second man pushed away from where he had been leaning on Orso’s desk and said, “Detective Cassidy?” while the first man opened another drawer.
Cassidy went around the second man and slammed the drawer, and the first man barely got his hand clear and jumped back and said, “Hey,” in a surprised voice. Both were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and striped ties. The one at Cassidy’s desk was twenty pounds overweight and had bought his suit when he wasn’t. His face was flushed and his dark hair was cut short and receded from his forehead. The second man was tall and thin with sallow skin and dirty blond hair cut in a flattop. They looked like accountants, but they weren’t.
“I’m Carl Susdorf,” the thin one said. “Paul Cherry over there. We’re with the FBI.” He offered a leather case with a badge and ID. They had the easy arrogance of men with power, men who were used to being deferred to and feared.
Cassidy snapped the case out of Susdorf’s hand and sailed it across the room with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t give a shit who you are. You’ve got no business in my desk.”
“Got something to hide, Detective?” Cherry asked. He was still raw about the slammed drawer. Susdorf went to retrieve his badge.
“Pictures of your sister from when I worked Vice.”
Cherry’s face went redder and he took a step forward, but stopped, his body clenched like a fist. “Oh, yeah, smart guy? You don’t even begin to know the shit that could fall on you.”
“G-men.” Cassidy made a kid’s noise like a submachine gun. “Take that, Johnny Dillinger.” He laughed. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Cherry stepped toward him, but Susdorf put a hand on his arm to check him. “It’s okay. He’s right, Paul. We should have waited till he got here.”
The door to the lieutenant’s office opened and Lieutenant Tanner stood in the doorway in his shirtsleeves. “Cassidy, step in here.”
The two Feds followed him in.
Tanner was as bald as an egg and had the battered and thickened face of an unskilled boxer. Behind his desk he looked like a big man with the shoulders and chest of a heavyweight, but when he stood he showed the legs of a bantam, so he looked top-heavy and in danger of toppling. He retrieved a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and got it smoldering again with a kitchen match struck on the desktop.
“Sit down, Detective,” Susdorf said. There were three chairs arranged in front of the lieutenant’s desk. He indicated the one in the middle.
Cassidy walked to the window and rested his butt on the sill.
Susdorf pulled one of the chairs around to face Cassidy and sat. Cherry leaned against the wall near the door.
“They want to ask you some questions about the other night,” Tanner said.
Susdorf took a leather-covered notebook from
his pocket and made a show of looking through it while Cassidy waited, amused. He had used the same interrogation techniques himself, the middle chair to make the suspect feel hemmed in, the long wait while notes were read, details of the case checked, all meant to unsettle him, make him eager to talk. He lit a Lucky and scratched the stitches under his shirt.
Susdorf closed the notebook and tapped it on his knee. “Do you love your country, Michael? You don’t mind if I call you Michael, do you? Do you love your country?” He was as earnest as a preacher.
Jesus, Cassidy thought, and did not answer.
“I’m pretty sure you do.” He gestured with the notebook. “A decorated war hero. D-Day. The Bulge. I envy you that. My duties with the Bureau kept me stateside.” He smiled at Cassidy, inviting a response.
“Yeah, we had a ball,” Cassidy said. “Good times. All blondes, French wines, and feather beds.”
Tanner, a Marine captain who had survived Saipan and Okinawa, snorted.
Susdorf laughed uneasily, knowing something had flown by him. “Let’s talk about Alexander Ingram.” He checked his notebook again and then looked up expectantly at Cassidy.
Cassidy waited him out.
“Did you search the apartment?”
“I looked around. When I first got there. Searched it? No.”
Susdorf waited for him to go on. He did not. “Did you find anything? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Aside from the dead body in the bathroom, no.”
“But you went back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Something bothered me.”
“What was that?”
“I don’t know. Instinct. Hunch. Whatever you want to call it.” He certainly wasn’t going to talk to them about a dream in the back of a taxi.
“Were you looking for something in particular?”
“No.”
“Then how would you have known if you found it?”
“Because it would have been hidden.”
Cherry snorted in disgust.
“The man who attacked you was already there, right?”
“Yes. He had cut the crime scene tape and slipped the lock.”
“Why didn’t you call for backup? You could have sealed the building and trapped him in there.”
“I didn’t know he was still in there until I tried the door and it ran up against a chair he’d stuck under the knob. Then he knew I was outside. If I’d left, he would’ve taken off.”
“The super had a phone downstairs. You could have had him call it in while you watched the front.”
“There was a fire escape the guy could’ve used. Or he could’ve gone up and over the roofs. It was my call. I made the one I thought was best.”
“Yeah, that worked out real well,” Cherry said.
Susdorf put up a hand to check his partner. “We’re all on the same side here, Michael. We’re all trying to get to the bottom of something. You said this man who attacked you had been searching the apartment.”
“That’s what it looked like when the lights were on. He’d cut open some of the cushions. He’d tossed the kitchen. He hadn’t gotten to the bedroom yet.”
“Yes, the bedroom. Nothing there as far as we could tell.”
“You searched it too.”
“Yes.”
“What were you looking for?”
“That’s not germane to this conversation. Now, the man who left, the one who assaulted you, did you get a look at him?”
“I saw him from the back when he went out.”
“Describe him.”
“Five ten. A hundred sixty pounds. Athletic build. Dark hair cut short. Black trousers, black windbreaker, black rubber-soled shoes. I didn’t see his face. I think he was wearing gloves.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“It seems to me he grabbed a shopping bag as he went out the door. One of those big paper ones like you get from a department store. It was on the floor near the door and he grabbed it as he went.”
The two Feds exchanged a look. That bothered them.
“And after he left, you’re sure you didn’t look around and find anything?”
“Like what?”
“I’m asking you.”
“I didn’t look. I didn’t find anything.”
Susdorf looked at Cassidy to see if he could spot a lie, and then nodded. “All right.”
“Let me ask you something,” Cassidy said.
“Go right ahead.” He smiled, happy to help.
“Why is a New York homicide federal business?”
“We have an overriding interest in Ingram’s death. It pertains to matters outside the jurisdiction of the New York Police Department.”
“Ingram was tortured. What was his killer looking for? What did you search the apartment for?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. That part of the investigation is a federal matter, not a local one. I can’t tell you anything more. Sorry.”
“Even though we’re on the same side, all trying to get to the bottom of something? What is it we’re trying to get to the bottom of if it’s not murder?”
Having his own words thrown back did not bother Susdorf. “It’s a matter of national security. I’m sure you’re aware, Michael, that we are at war with people who are trying to destroy America. It’s an undeclared war, but a war nevertheless, and in a war like this some rules have to be set aside.”
“Alexander Ingram was a Commie agent?”
“He was a person of interest to us on a matter of national security. That’s all I’m going to say. We’re asking for the cooperation of the New York Police Department in this matter. We expect you to investigate in the normal manner, but we require that you keep us informed of all developments in the case. I cannot emphasize enough that there are matters here beyond the scope of your department.” He put his notebook away and stood up and put several of his business cards on Tanner’s desk.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You report daily. You tell us what you’ve turned up no matter how insignificant it might seem to you. Are we clear?”
“Clear.”
Cherry grinned at Cassidy and opened the door. The two of them went out into the squad room.
“So?”
“So what?” Tanner said.
“As long as the Feebles are happy, we’re happy?”
“I got a call from a guy who got a call from a guy who got a call from a guy. Cooperate. Give them what they want. The word from on high.”
“They don’t care about the killing. They’re looking for something they think Ingram had.”
“If you find it, give it to them. You don’t want to push on this. You’re hanging by a thread. One wrong move and you’re out of the department. This is not the time to be sticking your head up. There are plenty of guys who want to see you fall for what you did to Franklin.”
“Screw Franklin. He deserved what he got.”
“Do what the Feds want. Don’t argue. Don’t make waves. Now get out of here.”
Tanner had no malice toward Cassidy, but whatever idealism had led him to be a cop had been ground out of him by the realities of the job. Now he was a man who watched his back, avoided conflict, and looked to retirement. He respected Cassidy and would not harm him if he could avoid it, but he would not go out of his way to protect him when he stepped over the line.
5
As Cassidy pushed through the theater doors, he could hear the rehearsal pianist banging the keys of the upright and the shuffle and stomp of a chorus line going through a bit. The lights were up onstage, but the seats were in darkness. Small lamps on bendable stalks clipped to the backs of seats in front of the fifth row allowed the director and his assistants to take notes on the rehearsal. The chorus line, eight men and eight women in leotards, leg warmers, old sweatshirts, and sweaters, shuffled their steps as the piano banged to a stop. Cassidy could see that the finish was ragged and half the chorus ended off the beat
.
“Boys and girls. Boys and girls. That was the button. You don’t hit the button, you don’t get the applause. It’s a triple rhythm, three steps to two beats of the music. You’ve all done it before. All right, take a break. Back in five.” The dance captain, Marco, waved them away. He was a trim man in his thirties wearing black tights and a blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. His hair was longer than the close-cut fashion of the day.
He ignored the stairs and leapt off the stage and started toward the cluster of people in the fifth row. “Sorry, everybody. The new boy’s just a little off, and everyone’s a bit thrown. We’ll do it again after the company meeting. We’ll get it.” And then he saw Cassidy. “Michael!” He bounded up the aisle, jumped on Cassidy, and wrapped his legs around Cassidy’s waist with his arms around his neck. “You missed me. You couldn’t stay away. You’ve decided you can’t live without me.”
“All of the above,” Cassidy said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Honey, you can do anything you want to me.”
Jesus Christ, Cassidy thought, the theater. Different rules, different customs. When you are a child, everything that is part of your parents’ lives is your norm. Only later did he realize how different the world he had grown up in was from the world outside it. He carried Marco down the aisle as if it were perfectly normal to have a man cling to him like a limpet to where the group sat in the fifth row. “All right, down, boy.” Marco disengaged.
A tall, silver-haired man in a well-tailored suit rose at the end of the row. “Hello, Albert,” Cassidy greeted him.
“Michael. How nice to see you.” He offered his deep, resonant voice and his large, soft hand. Albert London was called the best stage actor in America. He was elegant, graceful, and dignified, and a dedicated womanizer who married often. He could occasionally be persuaded to direct a play, and everyone said Tom Cassidy was lucky to get him for Now and Forever, but luck was only part of it. London needed the work to pay his multiple alimonies. “Everybody, you know Tom’s son Michael, don’t you?”
Night Life Page 6