by M. Z. Kelly
“You got a rep?”
“Made a call last night. They said somebody from the detective’s union is supposed to contact me today.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let the department railroad you. I met a cop a couple of months ago who said they’ve got it in for anybody who isn’t a white shirt.”
A white shirt was the rank of lieutenant or above. We went on, chatting about my circumstances, before Amy unburdened herself, telling me about her martial problems. “Michael’s seeing somebody again. He comes home from the factory smelling like cheap perfume and pussy.”
My features scrunched up. “Ugh. I hope you’re not sleeping with him.”
“I confronted him about it, and he threw a mantrum. And, as for the sex...” She paused, making sounds like a hog tossing its cookies. “...we haven’t played hide the sausage in months. I’m just trying to get a stash together to leave the SOB. If Dr. D makes good on this promise of twenty big ones, it would be enough to get me and Mr. Psycho a small place.” Mr. Psycho was Amy’s cat, a long haired Persian, with a really bad attitude. “Hey, maybe I’ll jump Dr. Denzel’s bones, for a bonus. Is he a sapiosexual?”
“A what-sexual?” I asked.
“I just thought, given that his wife’s a gyno doc, maybe he’s somebody who likes brains more than vaginas.” She took a bite of the cinnamon roll Gary had brought over. “On second thought, if he’s a doctor, we might not be a good fit, since my vagina’s smarter than my brain.”
“I’m not sure about his preferences. I only talked to him for a few minutes.”
“No matter. I need to take things slow, anyway, until I can unload stinky.”
“Stinky?”
“Michael.”
“Oh.” I removed a sheet of paper from my purse, with notes I’d made about the doctor’s missing brother. “Dr. C’s brother is Billy Cornelius.”
“Billy?” Amy checked her makeup in her compact mirror and went on. “I know the problem without even looking into things. Billy never grew up. He’s an eight-year-old with mommy issues, trapped in a twenty-something body. He’s like ninety-nine percent of the male population.”
“He’s thirty-two, but you might be right about the not growing up thing. Denzel, I mean Dr. Cornelius, said he has a drug problem.”
“Told you.”
My phone was ringing as Amy said, “Let’s go see if we can find him.”
“Give me a sec.” I answered the call, told the caller to hold on, and walked outside the restaurant to get away from the noise.
“This is Walt Turnbull with the DEA,” the caller said when I told him I could talk. “I see you got yourself into a lot of hot water last night.”
The DEA was the Detectives’ Endowment Association, which represented active and retired NYPD detectives. “I’m not sure how hot the water is. All I know is that my LT said I’m on the beach.”
“IAB’s already involved, so I’d say the waters are going to get a lot hotter. We need to talk. Can you meet me this afternoon?”
I was exhausted and hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, but I knew if I didn’t see what Turnbull had to say, I might never be able to sleep. IAB was the department’s Internal Affairs Bureau, also known as the “rat squad”. I suddenly felt like a big block of cheese. “What time do you want me at your office?”
“Let’s say four, and you might want to write out everything that happened last night before the meeting.”
“Why is that?”
“Word has it that you’re facing termination.”
FOUR
The DEA was on Thomas Street in lower Manhattan. I arrived twenty minutes early for my meeting and had to wait an hour to see Walt Turnbull. Despite my exhaustion, while I waited I took the time to write out details of everything that happened last night, pushing down my anger. What my rep had said about me possibly being terminated made me mad as hell. I had done nothing wrong, and I intended to make that clear to him.
When I finally got an audience with The Bull, as a placard on his desk announced, I dispensed with pleasantries and handed over my notes of last night’s events. “This is everything that happened from the moment we entered the store until…until I fished my partner out of the dumpster and performed CPR on him.”
Turnbull was a big guy in his forties, with dark hair, no forehead, and beady eyes. I’m an instant judge of people, and immediately pronounced judgment on Turnbull: he was a ginormous assclown.
My representative put on a pair of reading glasses and took a couple minutes looking over what I’d written. When he finished, he removed the glasses and took a breath, but didn’t say anything.
“Well?” I said. “What do you think?”
“Just between us, I think you’re in deep shit.”
I raised my voice. “Why is that? I followed protocol…”
“Your perp wasn’t properly handcuffed. They’re going to say that everything was your fault.”
I leaned forward. “Listen to me. He resisted arrest and assaulted me…”
“By stepping on your toe.”
“Don’t minimize it. He broke my toe and bolted. It wasn’t something I could prevent.”
“Mr. Wong says otherwise. He filed a citizen’s complaint.”
“And why do you suppose he’d do that?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “Tell me the truth, why would Mr. Wong file a complaint?” Nothing. “Because Corker encouraged him to do it, didn’t he?”
Turnbull shrugged. “Maybe. Rumor has it he’s got some issues with some of his staff.”
“Rumor has it. Really? That’s the best you can come up with? Everybody knows Corker hates women.” I took a breath and tried to compose myself. I then did my best to keep my voice even. “Tell me something: why is this going to IAB? It’s my understanding most disciplines are now being handled at the precinct level.”
“Minor disciplines are. Like I said on the phone, you’re likely facing termination.”
My composure melted, and my voice shook with anger. “This is a setup, and I won’t stand for it.”
Turnbull exhaled. “The fact is, an officer lost his life during the failed arrest of…” He looked at my paperwork. “….a Mr. Schwartz.”
“One-Eye.”
“What?”
“Everyone calls him One-Eye because he looks like a dick.” You dick.
“Whatever. You were there when everything went down, and a citizen filed a complaint about your actions. The department is not going to let this go.”
“The officer lost his life because of an accident. I had nothing to do with it.”
Turnbull rubbed his jaw, studying me. “There is another possibility.”
“I’m not resigning, if that’s what you have in mind.”
He shook his head. “You could voluntarily ask for a reassignment and some retraining. That request might head off any formal action and lessen the possibility of discipline. It would allow the department to say they took action, and you get some assistance.”
“Assistance.” I exhaled. “What kind of reassignment are you referring to?”
“The department recently developed a pilot program. Have you ever heard Precinct Blue?”
I stood up and walked over to the window of his second story office. There was a pile of snow beneath the window. Unfortunately, it would probably break my fall if I decided to jump.
I looked back at him. “Precinct Blue. You’ve got to be kidding.”
The unit was the brainchild of the former commissioner, who had recently dropped dead on the job. I didn’t know a lot about the one-of-a-kind precinct that had been developed to retrain wayward cops, but I’d heard horror stories about it consisting of a bunch of misfits—officers whose careers were essentially over.
Turnbull went over to a dispenser in the corner of his office and got us each a cup of water. He handed me a cone-shaped cup that reminded me of Stufflebeam’s head. “It’s not as bad as you’ve probably heard. We’ve had a couple of detectives even say they
enjoyed their reassignment.”
“I’ll bet,” I said, before downing the water. “NYPD’s version of reform school.”
Turnbull went back over to his desk. I followed him and collapsed into the chair across from him again, feeling like what little bit of energy I had left had been completely drained from my body.
Turnbull’s beady eyes found me. “I think it’s the best option. You do a few months in Blue, then it’s back to a regular assignment. I’ll personally stay on top of your file, make sure you’re not hung out to dry.”
I felt completely defeated as I cursed, “God damn it.”
“What did you say?”
I felt like one of those blow-up toys kids play with in a swimming pool that had lost all its air. “Whatever.”
“What did you say?”
I looked at him. “If you think it’s my only play to keep from getting terminated, I’ll accept the reassignment.”
“Good decision. Let me make some calls. It might take a day or two to set things in motion, but I promise you won’t regret this.”
I stood up and headed for the door, but turned back to him. “Just so you know, I’m going to prove you all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to prove that this is not the 1950s, and women do have a place in law enforcement.”
FIVE
“Sounds to me like your rep ain’t any better than your jughead boss,” Amy said, chewing on a wad of gum as she drove us to Billy Cornelius’s last known address the next morning. I’d called Dr. Cornelius before leaving and told him that Amy had accepted the case. She went on. “What do you know about this Precinct Blue?”
I sighed. Even though I’d finally had some sleep and the throbbing in my toe and had let up, I was depressed about my probable reassignment. “From what I know, it’s the last stop before you’re either demoted or lose your job; a last chance for fuckups.”
Amy fixed her blue eyes on me. Maybe she felt sorry for me. As always, something about her eyes and pile of wayward red hair reminded me of a young Lucille Ball. It occurred to me that I might even be her Ethel Mertz. Something about that further depressed me.
“I don’t get it,” Amy said. “You’re a good cop who never gets the credit you deserve. Don’t let that bunch of asswipes bust your chops.”
I smiled. “I appreciate you saying that.”
“They are asswipes…”
“I meant about me being a good cop.”
“Oh, that. Yeah.” She brushed the swirling hair out of her eyes. “I’m just sayin’, you got a gift, Maddie. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”
“Yeah, a gift for landing in a pile of shit, and last night proves it.”
“There’s that, and…” The traffic stopped abruptly in front of us, causing Amy to slam on her brakes and yell, “Idiots!” She looked over at me. “You got a sixth sense ‘bout things. Remember Jerry Schnotz?”
I laughed. “How could I forget him?”
“All I’m sayin’ is that you figure things out, get even, and eventually pick up the pieces.”
Amy was referring to the fact that I’d lost my virginity to a guy named Jerry Schnotz, aka Jerry Snots, as the other kids at James Madison High called him. Maybe it was the fact that I’d spent my life being stalked by Vinnie, but one dark night in the back seat of Jerry’s parents’ Buick, I succumbed to his advances.
The next day, news of what happened spread around school faster than a plague of mosquitos with the Zika virus. During the afternoon snack break, I was getting some books out of my locker when a bunch of kids behind me took up the chant: Jerry Got Your Cherry.
I’d told Amy what happened, and that had sent her on a mission for revenge. I snuck out of the house around nine that night, met her on the street, and we went to Jerry’s place. We eventually made our way into his back yard and looked in his bedroom window. We found him—to be polite—pleasuring himself. Luckily, Amy had brought her cell phone, and the next day Jerk-off Jerry, the poster boy for small hands and everything else that came with that, was on display as his classmates arrived at school.
The entire sorry episode had taught me three lessons: Never have sex with a guy named Schnotz. When you go into battle, always take your best friend with you. And, if you’re going to play with what God gave you, keep your blinds closed.
After a short drive, Amy and I found the flat Billy Cornelius had rented on a street in Prospect Heights, just east of Flatbush Avenue. The area consisted of older houses under reconstruction, 1890s brownstones, and a few upscale luxury condos. Billy’s apartment was for rent and located in one of the brownstones that had been subdivided, probably illegally, into a triplex.
A neighbor, a haggard looking woman named Mona, showed us the unit after we called the number on the For Rent sign and told her we were interested in renting the place. Amy made small talk as she worked the key in the lock, asking about the former tenant.
“He was a nice kid, who just up and disappeared one day,” Mona said. After a couple tries, she put a shoulder on the door and managed to pry it open. “Nobody’s had a chance to clean the place yet.”
“That’s for sure,” Amy said, scrunching her nose up. “Smells like rotting garbage.”
“I’m trying to get one of them happy maid places to come by,” Mona said, making excuses, but at the same time holding a hand up against her nose. She backed away from us. “Why don’t you take your time, drop the key off when you’re finished, and let me know if you’re interested.”
“It must be my week for rotten smells,” I said, after she was gone. “I don’t think the happy maid is going to be very happy about this.”
Amy found a tissue in her purse and held it over her nose. “The place looks like my house after one of Stinky’s poker parties. Only it smells better.” She went over and raked a hand across the kitchen counter, making a place to put her purse down. “Let’s toss the joint and see what we come up with.”
Tossing the joint took us the better part of the morning. After two hours of going through Billy Cornelius’s belongings, we came to three conclusions: The place had blow and booze—Billy liked cocaine and any kind of alcohol. Our subject had been seeing a girl named Ronnie Powers. And, Billy owed around ten grand to a guy named Dorsey, first name unknown. He had what I recognized as pay-owe sheets in a drawer, telling us he was a small time drug dealer.
After returning the key to Mona, we drove back to Amy’s neighborhood in Morris Park, where we had lunch at a pizza joint called Romano’s. Over a deep crust pepperoni, with extra cheese, Amy gave me her thoughts.
“You ask me, this Dorsey guy wanted his money and might have sent somebody to lean on Billy boy, and something unexpected happened along the way.”
“As in?”
“Dunno.” Amy caught a string of cheese with a finger, stuffed it in her mouth. “But I do know that Billy wasn’t into that Dorsey guy for enough dough to cause himself irreparable harm. There had to be something else going on and I’m willing to bet Ronnie Powers has some idea what it was.”
“It’s funny that Cleo didn’t mention her to me.”
Amy chewed, thought about what I’d said. “You find any girl things in Billy’s apartment?” I shook my head. “Me neither. Even if they was only shacking up here and there, Ronnie woulda had stuff. Girl’s got stuff. You know, like hairspray, eyeliner, condoms, knives…”
“Knives?”
Amy shrugged. “I’m from Trenton. We protect the home front. All I’m sayin’ is when there’s no stuff, it tells me something else was going on at Billy’s.”
“You’re losing me, Sherl,” I said, using the abbreviation for Sherlock I sometimes used for Amy when she was in her take charge PI mode.
She held up her iced tea. “Wait for it.” She guzzled the drink, set the glass down, and burped. “Ronnie’s a working girl.”
“So, Dr. Cleo’s brother has a thing for drugs, booze, and prostitutes.”
“It’s the trife
cta—every man’s three weaknesses.”
“Where do we go from here?”
Amy stood up. “To the bathroom.”
SIX
After using the bathroom, Amy and I stood in the parking lot outside of Romano’s and decided to call the phone number for Ronnie Powers that we’d found in Billy Cornelius’s apartment.
“Why don’t you do the talking,” Amy suggested. “Your voice has that desperate quality that appeals to people.”
“Desperate? What does that mean?”
“It’s kinda raspy sounding, maybe from yellin’ at bad guys all these years.” Her blue eyes fixed on me. “We also need to come up with an alias for you to use when you’re helping me. How ‘bout Tanya?”
“Tanya.” I pulled the phone out of my purse. “Whatever.” I started to dial the number, then said, “Should I say we want to meet at Billy’s apartment?”
Her eyes fixed on me again, and she shook her head. “You gotta stop thinking like a cop and start thinking like a perp.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ronnie’s a working girl. Where do working girls work?”
“You’re telling me I need to set up a date at a motel.” She nodded. “There’s one small problem. We can’t afford a room.”
“There’s that place over on Johnson. They rent by the hour. We shouldn’t need more than that.”
“You mean Chucky Fucky’s?”
Amy nodded. “I drove by there the other day. Their sign said something ‘bout a ten buck special.” She glanced at my purse. “How much you got?”
I sighed. “Probably just enough for an hour, but Ronnie’s also gonna want to get paid.”
Amy exhaled, swept her red hair back. “You got a point. We’re gonna have to go back to Dr. C and negotiate expenses. In the meantime, let’s stop by my place. I can use some of my stash money to pay Ronnie and also get you a wig. Go ahead and make the call.”
“And what exactly am I going to ask Ronnie for?”