He dialed, waited for the first ring to be interrupted.
“Hello, Chief O’Malley? This is Chief Levine. You got a minute?”
Karen called just as Brian was leaving his office for the conference with Arthur Pollack. “Listen, Karen, can I get back to you? You at the office or home? I have a conference.”
“This is business, Brian.”
He hesitated, felt a sharpening sense of awareness. Her voice was businesslike and insistent. Carefully, he said, “What business do we have pending?”
In the past, he’d given her small things, fed her leads if there was a particularly sensational crime current and if she was assigned to it. But it had been understood between them that she’d never initiate any inquiry. Brian had the vague feeling that she was violating some unstated agreement
“This newspaper article, Brian. What’s a ‘pad’?”
“Karen, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Brian, hold it a minute—”
“Tonight,” he said tersely and hung up.
At the Chief Inspector’s office, there were, in addition to Deputy Chief Inspectors Levine and O’Malley, two inspectors and two deputy inspectors.
“Go ahead, Brian,” the Chief Inspector said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Right, Chief. I’ve sent someone over to the News to pick up an advance of the article they’re going to run tomorrow, but the gist of it is what I’ve already gotten over the telephone.”
Arthur Pollack rubbed his horn-rimmed glasses with a clean handkerchief but didn’t put them back over his tired eyes as he spoke. “So, he doesn’t actually name names?”
“Well,” Brian answered, “he indicates the position of the men he claims were on the pad. I mean, what the hell. If he’s accusing the squad commander of the precinct’s detectives, that could be only one guy, right?”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose with his slender fingers and closed his eyes for a moment, then put on the glasses and said, “Aaron, you’re on top of this?”
Arthur Pollack’s tone was more hopeful than authoritative. He hadn’t developed the tone of command, yet his reputation for getting things done, all things considered, was strong.
Aaron Levine consulted the list of neatly typed notations which were attached to his clipboard. “We’ve sent someone over to this reporter’s home and someone to his office to interview him. He’s not around and nobody seems to know where he is, so we’re looking into that.” He made a small check mark next to the item and continued down his list, checking as he spoke. “I have a man over at the D.A.’s office to see how he feels about a grand jury appearance for this Jerry Smith. Incidentally, that’s his real name, and as Jerry Smith, he was in the Department on the dates and in the locations he’s indicated in his articles.
“I have two men over at the Seventeenth Precinct now interviewing anyone he ever worked with. I have an appointment with Lieutenant Cavanaugh, the squad commander of the precinct detectives, scheduled for two-thirty this afternoon, in my office.
“The Legal Department is studying the articles for possible action, et cetera.” Aaron Levine looked up finally and ventured, “Along with all the usual possible bases to be touched whenever any allegations such as these arise, that’s it to date, Chief.”
Arthur Pollack nodded and stood up. The men in his office, taking this for a signal that the meeting was over, stood up too. He glanced at them in some surprise, looked slightly startled, then gestured them back into place. Standing, he looked about as tall as his subordinates did seated.
“No, no, stay put, please. I just wanted to stretch my legs. Oh, one other thing, Aaron. I assume you’ve thought of this, but just to be sure. Aside from checking out the accusations, you’re also checking on this reporter?”
Levine scanned his list, snapped his fingers. That particular notation was neatly jotted on the other side of his paper. “Yes, Chief, I’ve somebody on his background from day of birth up to the present. We should have that by late this afternoon.”
“Well, then let’s hope he’s a convicted perjurer at least. It would make things easy, wouldn’t it? Now, Brian. We’ll handle this along the lines we’ve previously discussed. The Commissioner feels we’re still in a position to adopt a wait-and-see attitude.”
“No problem there, Chief.”
Arthur Pollack stared blankly for a moment; one eye turned in slightly until he blinked, held up his hands, looked around the room as though for confirmation. “Okay, then, that’s it for now, gentlemen.”
Karen swallowed some Scotch, wrinkled her nose, extended her glass toward him. “Brian, drop a couple of cubes in this for me, will you? Look, I don’t know what you’re so angry about. I did call you first thing this morning and I did say it was business.”
“Look, babe, if you’re going to be stepping on my toes, at least make sure you’ve got some weight going for you. What the hell kind of crap was that to pull: The Police Department was not available for comment on the allegations contained in today’s published article.’” He handed her the drink and sat opposite her, his feet on the cocktail table between them.
Karen rolled the drink between her palms. “Look, Brian, you know I’m working up to my own show. It’s all set, three nights a week, Talk About Your City. I’m going to be dealing with every city agency from the mayor’s office down to the Department of Sanitation.”
“You ought to reverse the order: Department of Sanitation down to the mayor’s office. Look, I still think you hit low tonight and it bounces right back to me.”
She shrugged, played a finger over an ice cube. “Okay, want to give me some detailed information? My show’s scheduled to start in two weeks. The Police Department might be for openers.”
“Forget it,” he said tersely. “I’m not kidding, Karen. Don’t try to use me.”
Slowly, she leaned forward and put her glass on the table. She shook his foot lightly from side to side. “Why not, sweetie? We’ve been using each other for a long time.”
He was surprised at how angry he felt. “Look, kid, I’m serious. If the Department’s got a problem, it’s internal, and I’m not about to give you a few tidbits to feed your voracious audience and get your show going in style. My job is to keep the lid on. There’s nothing involved that requires full-scale TV coverage.”
“Well, it’s a good story when it involves investigating the investigators, Brian. Your job may be to keep the lid on. My job is to open it all up to the public eye.”
“Then I think maybe we’d better not discuss it when we’re together, Karen. You do your job, I’ll do mine, right?”
She chewed on her index finger for a moment, then grinned. “If I do my job properly, you won’t be able to do yours.”
Brian leaned back and returned the challenging smile tightly. “Yeah, baby, but if I do my job properly, same thing applies. You know, it’s so damned nice and comforting to have an understanding woman.”
“Screw you, O’Malley.”
THIRTY-NINE
PATROLMAN JOHNNIE MORRISON PRIDED himself on his appearance. He was of medium height, slender build and he knew how to dress and how to wear clothes. He had his hair styled and groomed at an expensive men’s salon. He had the look of today and the look of the crowd he most admired and had been assigned to work around. He liked vice assignments; they meant action and a chance to mix it up with the real swingers. Sometimes, he felt he’d been born too early. It was a great time to be twenty-five instead of thirty-five, but for a man of thirty-five, he held his own pretty good.
He didn’t think much of Patrolman Pete Caputo. As far as appearance goes, the kid was a slob. Johnnie Morrison had seen guys with beards look dapper and cool. This kid was just plain motley; no style, no class, nothing. He wasn’t exactly the kind of partner Johnnie Morrison would have selected for himself, but he was, nevertheless, the partner given him in the new shake-up.
The word on the kid was that he was a little strange but basically okay. If the wor
d was a little vague, that didn’t bother Morrison too much. He’d size the kid up in short order. At least he’d heard the kid had moxie and that always came in handy, since no matter how you played it when you worked an unmarked out on the street, you never knew what the hell you might come on and it was good to have a bit of backbone behind you besides your own.
“You got much going out in the Seventy-first?” Morrison asked. “I don’t know Brooklyn. I’m strictly a Manhattan boy myself.”
“The Seventy-first is pretty quiet, I guess.”
“Well, the Fourteenth is pretty active,” Morrison said. He glanced sideways at his young partner and added, “You know. In lotsa ways. Hey, speaking of which, did you catch that on the radio?”
They both leaned forward and Morrison picked the words out right away. He was attuned to anything that might mean his particular sector. “Yeah, that’s us, Pete. Go. Oh, Jesus, Emporium Furs. Hell, I know that place. It’s wholesale.”
There were signs of breaking and entering, but by the time they arrived at the huge store on West 32nd Street, there were no further signs of the intruders. There were three patrol cars on the scene when Morrison and Caputo arrived in their unmarked black Plymouth.
A slightly built sergeant leaned toward one of the patrol cars, which had obviously arrived just moments before the unmarked. “Okay, okay, there’s no fucking sideshow to be seen here. You guys can just take off; there’s nothing around for all you guys. Go on, go on, it’s under control.”
“What do you say, Johnnie,” Pete Caputo asked, “should we scout the area? They’ve probably been scared off by now but we could ride around a little and take a look.”
Johnnie rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, his fingers lingering on the soft curl of hair, newly styled. “Take it easy, kid. I just wanna go have a look around.”
As they got out of the car, the sergeant approached them, his face a tight, questioning glare. “Oh, it’s you, Johnnie. Who the hell is this? Bearded Sam?”
“This here is my new partner. Pete Caputo, meet Sergeant Edgar. So, what’s doing?”
“The owner’s been notified. He’ll be here in about forty-five minutes.”
It seemed somewhat irrelevant information, but Morrison nodded as though that was what he wanted to know. He scanned the patrolmen on the scene, one stationed at the door, two inside the store, then turned to Pete.
“Hey, partner, look I’m just gonna have a look-see. You keep on the radio, okay?” He winked and as he walked into the store he casually hung an arm over the sergeant’s shoulder.
Pete sat in the car and smoked a few cigarettes. They were parked directly across from the front of Emporium Furs and he had a fairly good view into the shop. The whole block had a middle-of-the-night three-thirty feeling to it. He remembered the summer he’d worked in a dress shop, not two blocks away. Christ, he shoved racks down these streets when they were jammed with trucks and cars and shoving people. Funny, he hadn’t thought of that for years, but one day, a truck actually knocked him down. The truck backed up suddenly, and Pete and his rack of cheap dresses barreled right into the truck. Pete went under the truck and all he worried about was the fucking merchandise. Jesus, the boss would kill him if he didn’t make delivery.
God, kids were dumb. He’d never told anyone about that, as though it were a terrible fault he should keep private.
Pete flipped the cigarette out the window and wondered who was pulling up in the dark Oldsmobile. Must be the owner of the shop. A tall, slim, dark figure of a man. One of the patrolmen came over to the car and stood beside the man, talking. Then the patrolman touched his cap and went back inside the shop. It seemed a little strange. If he was the owner, why didn’t he go inside the shop?
Pete slid down, pressed his shoulders against the back of his seat and watched. After about five minutes, the patrolman came out of the shop. He carried a large box, which the other man put on the fender of the car. He examined the contents of the box and seemed angry about something. The patrolman shrugged, gestured over his shoulder. The other man shoved the box at the patrolman, looked at his wristwatch, lit a cigarette while he waited again.
Johnnie Morrison came out in a few minutes. He carried a huge box in two hands and he and the other man examined the contents. As the taller man bent toward the box, Johnnie’s hand patted his shoulder, then they both stood up and Johnnie seemed to be explaining something. The other man tossed the box onto the back seat, said something, listened, said something else, then extended his hand for a handshake. Johnnie looked around casually and watched the man get into the Oldsmobile and drive away.
Pete slumped way down in his seat and watched the driver as his face hit street light. It was the lieutenant in charge of the precinct’s detectives.
Pete got out of his car and walked to the front of the store. The uniformed patrolman stiffened, then recognized him as Johnnie Morrison’s partner and he brought his hidden cigarette to his mouth.
Pete jerked his head in the direction that the Oldsmobile had gone. “He’s a tough man to please, huh?”
The patrolman hesitated, then grinned. “Well, fuck him. He wants dark mink, he oughta risk his ass and go and pick his own, ya know?”
Pete shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged. He glanced across the store and noticed that the sergeant seemed very angry and Johnnie Morrison seemed very calm and pacifying as he helped the sergeant make a careful selection of merchandise. When Johnnie looked up and saw Pete, his expression never changed and he continued to pack and tie the large box which he handed to the sergeant, who handed it to a patrolman, who carried it outside and put it in the trunk of one of the patrol cars.
The owner of the store arrived shortly after; he was plump and pale and had the look of a man who had been disturbed by terrible news in the middle of the night.
“The gonifs, the goddamn gonifs. They’ll raise my insurance again. Third time this goddamn year I been hit.”
“I don’t think it’s too bad, Mr. Levin,” the sergeant said quietly. “By the looks of it, they couldn’t have got much. At least they didn’t mess up the place on you this time. And what the hell,” he said reasonably, “you’re insured for anything that’s missing, aren’t you?”
Johnnie Morrison began to feel a little more comfortable with his new partner. The kid kept his mouth shut and his eyes open and those were two of the most important qualifications a guy could have. Not that he trusted him completely, but he was easing him along, testing him, trying him out. After all, the kid had to learn the setup and Johnnie had to make sure he learned it right. He’d taken a big chance tonight and the kid still kept his cool, just stood by, waited without a word.
Johnnie indicated that Pete should take the wheel. He settled alongside him and studied the bearded face. “You wondering how come we didn’t lock that bastard up?”
Pete turned the key, started the motor. “I figure you got your reasons. I mean, we got him with more than a half ounce of suspicious white powder. We caught him dead flat out, so I figure there must be a good reason why we didn’t bag him.”
Johnnie Morrison considered the bland, expressionless face for a moment, then nodded. “Well, we’re gonna see some action in about five minutes. This little bag here”—he held the glassine envelope by a corner—“this here little bag is just insurance. Just in case we need it. See, what we’re going to do now is, we’re going to teach some little fuck-off a lesson. We got a message needs gettin’ around, and when you wanna make a public announcement, you do it in public. You know where Gomez’ bar is? On the corner of Ninth and Twenty-eighth Street?”
It was a small, dingy neighborhood bar and they parked across the street from it and sat for a moment just looking around. Morrison narrowed his eyes, seemed able to penetrate the filthy window even from that distance.
“Yeah,” he said finally, “the little bum’s in there. See that mutt tied to the lamppost? That’s Juan-o, Rodriguez’ dog, and he always leaves it there. Hal
f the time the dog is crocked. They slip him beer to keep him happy, the stupid bastard.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Good timing. We’ll get to make Night Court, then we can break. Okay, kid, all you gotta do this time out is, you gotta look and learn.”
“That’s what I’m here for, Johnnie,” Pete Caputo said quietly.
They took him with a great deal of sound and commotion and shoving and yelling. Rodriguez was small and wiry, with ratlike darting black eyes and fluttering hands which went up instinctively to Morrison’s huge hands, which wrapped around his throat.
Johnnie Morrison roared, “Hey, what the fuck is this, Rodriguez? You resisting?” He turned and said to Pete Caputo, “You witness this, Pete. This little bum is resisting!” He practically choked the man, threw him against the wall and warned, “You little turd, I’ll break your arms and legs, you try resisting arrest.”
“No, no, I no resist, no resist.”
The others in the bar stood quietly where they’d been told and watched as Morrison crashed into stools, knocked over drinks and with a great flourish whirled Rodriguez against the wall and patted him down.
It was obvious to anyone who was watching closely, and they were all watching closely, that Johnnie Morrison planted the bag on Rodriguez.
“Well, you little spic bum,” Morrison said loudly. “Look what he had stashed on him. You here to sell, Rodriguez?”
“Oh, no, hey, man, I’m clean.” He turned to face Morrison and he lowered his voice to a loud, hissing whisper. “Hey, man, we can talk, yeah? Oh, don’t take me like that, man. Jesus, we can talk, you know?”
Johnnie Morrison leaned in close and rammed his fist into Rodriguez’ stomach. “I’m talkin’ to you, bum. You understand English good now, huh? You didn’t hear me last time I talked to you. This time, you’ll hear me real good.” He turned to Pete. “Okay, let’s get this little piece of shit down to the station house.”
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