Forced Entry

by Stephen Solomita

  “Say,” Moodrow interrupted, changing the subject abruptly, “did you mention you dusted that paraphernalia you found? I don’t remember.”

  “For fingerprints?” Spinner was incredulous.

  “Yeah.” Dunlap joined in, even though he didn’t know what Moodrow was getting at, either. “For goddamn fingerprints.”

  “It’s just paraphernalia,” Spinner insisted. “Like ya find in every empty lot in the city. You’re actin’ like crack vials are weapons. Gasoline cans get dusted, right? Window glass. Lock handles. Since when do ya dust crack vials? Not that I didn’t gather all the paraphernalia. I got it bagged and tagged, just like they taught me in fire school.”

  “Sam,” Moodrow said, again changing the subject. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor. Would you let me take the paraphernalia over to the precinct and let our print guy take a look at it? I promise I’ll have it back to you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know…” Sam Spinner didn’t want to refuse his pal, and his conviction that the fire had been accidental made it possible to agree. After all, once his report was written, the samples he’d collected would be so much garbage. Still, doing favors for cops went against the grain.

  “It’s not for what you think,” Moodrow said quickly. “It’s for the narcs. There’s been a lotta dope in this building and if we can find a brand name on the vials or the envelopes, or even a print we can match with a known dealer, maybe we’ll finally be able to pinpoint the dirtbags bringing the dope in. Tomorrow—I promise—I’ll personally bring the bag anywhere you say.”

  Ten minutes later, Moodrow and Dunlap stood outside the Jackson Arms, equally grateful for the fresh air. Moodrow held a large manila envelope in his right hand and both men were looking at it.

  “What do you want with that crap?” Dunlap asked. “I’ve been going along with you. No problem. But how about letting me in on the secret?”

  Much to Dunlap’s surprise, Moodrow took the question seriously. “The fire was meant as a warning. It wasn’t supposed to kill her. Sure, the mattress has been down there for years. The janitor who got fired when the new management took over was an alkie. He slept down there, hung out when he didn’t wanna be found. Maybe he even resented the tenants so much, he pissed and shit down there. But the janitor wasn’t on drugs. In fact, according to every tenant in the building, there wasn’t any drug problem at all until six weeks ago, so how do you figure the crack vials got down there? And the syringes? And the candles and the fucking spoons? It stinks, Paulie. It fucking stinks and you oughta know it.”

  Dunlap flinched at the contempt in Moodrow’s voice. “And what do you expect to find? You think all the prints are gonna be the same?”

  “The first thing I wanna know,” Moodrow replied evenly, “is if there’s any prints at all.”

  The headquarters of Precision Management, the entire second floor of a small shopping plaza on Hillside Avenue in eastern Queens, was far from the suite of posh offices envisioned by Paul Dunlap. Five thousand feet of unwaxed, unwashed, black floor tiles, of desks lined one behind the other like beds in a homeless shelter, supported the various endeavors that made up the total business of Precision Management Consultants, Inc. There were two lawyers, their busy outlines just visible through dirty glass doors; an active insurance brokerage with phones ringing everywhere; a much quieter real estate division with three tired saleswomen talking shop; and, finally, almost as an afterthought, a small section specializing in residential real estate management.

  As the two men crossed the big room, both were reminded of the detectives’ room in a precinct. Virtually everything above the floor was dirty metal: gray desks, filing cabinets, dusty shelves. The legs of the desks were black with dirt and looked sticky and there was a smell of physical neglect that utterly belied the powerful drive for achievement that had created that neglect in the first place.

  “I think the cops subcontract the maintenance for this fucking place,” Moodrow whispered. “It’s a sewer.”

  Suddenly, one of the real estate saleswomen, her square Irish face split into a smile, looked away from her conversation and asked, “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Yeah,” Dunlap said. “We’re looking for Precision Management.”

  “It’s all Precision Management,” the woman observed.

  “Al Rosenkrantz,” Moodrow said, drawing the woman’s attention. “That’s who we’re looking for.”

  “Sweet Al?” The woman broke into laughter.

  “Yeah, Sweet Al. Where could we find him?”

  “His office is against the far wall. In the real estate management division.” She watched them go for a moment, before calling out. “Make sure he keeps his hands in his pockets.”

  When Moodrow pushed open the door to Al Rosenkrantz’s office, Rosenkrantz jumped straight out of the chair. “If this guy can’t control himself,” he said to Paul Dunlap, “get him out of here. There’s two lawyers at the other end of the building. Any repeat of the other night and I’m gonna send them after your pension.”

  “Why don’t you sit over there, Moodrow?” Dunlap said, pointing to a dirty gray metal chair by the door. “And keep your face shut for a change.” He glared at Moodrow briefly, then turned back to Rosenkrantz. “Look, Moodrow apologizes for the other day. He was way outta line. Of course, you shouldn’t have said what you said, either, but that’s past us now. All we want is a few minutes of your time.”

  Rosenkrantz, encouraged by Dunlap’s apologetic tone, pulled himself up in the chair before answering. “So take your few minutes and be on your way. I don’t mean to be abrupt, but I seem to be giving all my time to the Jackson Arms these days. It’s really a nothing project for us.”

  “First thing I should tell you,” Dunlap said, “is that the fire is an open investigation at the 115th Precinct. It’s official, right? A suspicious fire.”

  “That’s very interesting, because I spoke to the fire marshal not more than ten minutes ago and he thinks the fire was accidental. The building is insured through our brokerage, by the way, and the carrier is ready to cut a check as soon as the lab reports come back.”

  Dunlap, nonplussed for the moment, looked over at Moodrow, whose face, unfortunately, remained blank. “Be that as it may, it’s still my duty to tell you that, as far as the New York Police Department is concerned, the origins of the fire remain suspicious.”

  “Okay, you told me.” Rosenkrantz was beginning to enjoy himself. The cop was already uncomfortable and he was just getting started. “Now what could I do for you?”

  “Of course, we’re not here to question you about the fire,” Dunlap admitted. “We’re here on behalf of the tenants.”

  “If it’s about the dispossess notices, I already heard from this Legal Aid guy…” He searched his notepad for a moment before spelling out the name. “K A V E C C H I. I wouldn’t even make a guess as to the pronunciation. He informs me that all the tenants who received dispossess notices have retained a Legal Aid attorney to represent them. He says they intend to prepare a motion asking that all the cases be consolidated and dismissed at one hearing. Legal Aid is also going into Supreme Court to ask for some kind of injunction. This guy K A V E C C H I is very pushy; he expected me to make him an answer right on the spot. I told him that I just take orders…”

  “From who?” Dunlap asked innocently.

  “From the landlord.”

  “And who’s the landlord?”

  Rosenkrantz smiled and shook his head sadly. They were so stupid. “The Jackson Arms and the two adjoining buildings are owned by Bolt Realty Corporation.”

  “That’s where you get your instructions? From a corporation?”

  “Bolt Realty is represented by an attorney named William Holtz.”

  “You got his address and phone number?” Dunlap asked.

  “My secretary can give you that information.”

  “Why don’t you get it for him?” Moodrow rose halfway out of his chair. “This is a police investigati
on, you asshole. Whatta ya think, you’re the fuckin’ mayor? Get the goddamn address.”

  Dunlap smiled apologetically, gesturing wildly for Moodrow to sit back down. “Please, Al, if you could help us out, we’d appreciate it.”

  Rosenkrantz, who had less desire to deal with his irascible secretary than Dunlap, flipped the pages of his Rolodex briefly, then handed a card bearing the address and phone number of William Holtz to Sergeant Paul Dunlap, who dutifully copied it into a small notepad.

  “There’s one other thing,” Dunlap said. “You promised the tenants you were going to make some repairs. You know, the mailboxes and the front locks and the elevator? I tell you the truth, Al, I was scared myself when I used that elevator. It banged around like it was gonna fall apart any second…”

  “While we’re talking,” Rosenkrantz interrupted.

  “Pardon me?”

  “All three of those things are being done while we’re talking. The crews are on the scene right now.” Rosenkrantz leaned across the desk to tap the back of Dunlap’s hand. He was sweating profusely, but he smiled his brightest smile, nonetheless. “Look, I admit things haven’t worked out as well as they could have, but I intend to keep the promises I’ve made. Now, for God’s sake, sergeant, you and the rest of the cops have to take some of the blame. You say there’s dealers and whores in the building? Then arrest them. Put them in jail. When I went to Bayside High School, they taught me that a body can’t be in two places at the same time. If you put them in jail, they won’t be in my buildings.”

  The Manhattan offices of Holtz, Meacham, Meacham and Brount, located in the Kalikow Building at 101 Park Avenue, were everything the offices of Precision Management weren’t. The beige carpet pushed back against the soles of the feet like brand-new sixty-dollar Nikes. The brown burlap-covered walls sported a matched set of eight oil paintings depicting a fox hunt, from the huntsmen’s breakfast to the bloody corpse held triumphantly aloft. The receptionist, suitably young and beautiful, wore a necklace and bracelet of woven gold worth more than Moodrow’s entire wardrobe. Not quite sharp enough to make Dunlap and Moodrow for cops, she began to smile as soon as the door opened far enough to reveal the two visitors.

  “May I help you?” Her low, musical voice was stunning, as carefully prepared as her tightly curled and slightly unkempt hair. Hearing it, Moodrow couldn’t help but wonder how rich a law firm had to be to afford such an ornament. If, he concluded as he asked for William Holtz, the woman had put as much effort into school as she’d evidently put into her appearance, he’d be talking to a neurosurgeon. Still, her equally musical, “Mr. Holtz, there are two policemen to see you,” failed to get them into the lawyer’s office. Instead, William Holtz, tall, tanned, and heavily muscled in his middle age, strode into the reception area to confront them publicly.

  “Gentlemen?” Holtz, whose dark pinstriped suit, handmade by a Hong Kong Chinese with a showroom on East Broadway, had cost more than his receptionist’s jewelry, spoke sharply. He (a rare exception to the rule) accepted Moodrow and Dunlap’s respective IDs and began to examine them closely.

  Moodrow waited patiently, at first, then stepped in close and looked directly into the lawyer’s eyes. He wasn’t operating under the delusion that he could intimidate the man—lawyers are exempt from all forms of police bullying and they know it—but Moodrow’s cop radar had begun to beep the minute Holtz had appeared. He could feel himself drawing closer to the end of the mystery and he wanted to let Holtz (and whoever he was fronting for) know that Stanley Moodrow was coming. That simple. That final.

  “Which one of you is Sergeant Dunlap?” Though he maintained the eye contact, Holtz took a step back.

  “Right here.”

  “I’m very busy at the moment, sergeant. I’ve a client in my office and I’m late for a partners’ meeting. I’ve also had a long conversation with Mr. Rosenkrantz…”

  “This’ll only take a few minutes,” Moodrow said.

  “Mr. Moodrow,” Holtz returned, stepping around the larger man, “this conversation will be completed much more quickly if you stay out of it. I permit you to remain as a courtesy to Sergeant Dunlap, but I’m sure you realize that you’re a private citizen and have no standing here whatsoever.” He hesitated, allowing Moodrow the opportunity to challenge his statement, but Moodrow let it pass. “As I said, sergeant, I’ve just had a conversation with Mr. Rosenkrantz and I’m familiar with the condition of the property belonging to Bolt Realty.”

  “We were wondering if you knew about that,” Dunlap said quietly. He was half in a daze. The furnishings had gone to his head, the receptionist had gone to his crotch, and William Holtz’s wardrobe had gone to his heart. Holtz, Meacham, Meacham and Brount was a long way from the Elks Club.

  “Wonder no longer, sergeant. I have absolute confidence in Precision Management. Needless to say, Bolt Realty deplores any illegal activity occurring on its property and will, within reason, take whatever steps are necessary to repair the damage. Mr. Rosenkrantz has been so instructed, not only this afternoon, but on several occasions in the past.” He smiled briefly. “Are we done?”

  “There’s just one more thing,” Moodrow said.

  Holtz, who stood between Moodrow and Dunlap, didn’t bother to turn around. “Mr. Moodrow,” he began, “do you think you can stay out of this? If you can’t, we’ll end the conversation right here.” Again, he hesitated, waiting for Moodrow to respond, expecting and hoping the big ex-cop was infuriated and impotent.

  “There is one more thing,” Dunlap, who’d nearly forgotten, said quietly. “The landlord. We were hoping to appeal directly to the landlord. Would you have a problem giving us the landlord’s name?”

  William Holtz was genuinely amused. His salt-and-pepper crewcut seemed to leap erect as he grinned broadly. “Sergeant Dunlap, do you know anything about New York State corporate law? Or about the New York State housing code? Suffice it to say that my clients have no wish to be subject to the harassment of guerrillas like Stanley Moodrow. I have complete power of attorney with regard to the properties in question and am prepared to exercise my authority in a manner furthering the aims of my client. And that is all, gentlemen. That is the end of the interview. Please keep the following in mind: I will not receive you again unless a court compels me to do so. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

  TWENTY

  MOODROW WAS LYING IN bed, alone, naked, and fairly drunk, when the calls began to come in. He was alone because Betty had decided to stay overnight with her cousin in Jackson Heights; he was naked because he was drunk; he was drunk because he and Dunlap had celebrated their first useless day by hoisting six (or seven or eight) glasses of bourbon in the course of an Italian dinner.

  The first caller was the paralegal, Ino Kavecchi, who launched into his own lament so quickly, he failed to pick up a hint of Moodrow’s condition. “Whatsa matter with these people?” he complained. “They don’t wanna help themselves out? I mean I went to every tenant who got a dispossess. To sign them up to a petition so we could process all of them at one time, remember? Well, I couldn’t even get all of them to cooperate. You believe that? Three of the families are gettin’ ready to haul ass outta there. Don’t make sense, right? I mean we’re gonna defend the shmucks for nothin’. It took me all goddamn morning to find someone to explain it. Not that I shouldn’t have figured it out, because it’s simple greed, like it usually is when people do shitty things. I mean the landlord ain’t been cashing their checks and they figure the judge is gonna give ’em a few months to find another place, during which they still won’t pay any rent. Since they got somewhere else to go, why not take advantage and live without rent for six months or so? I swear, if I read it in a book, I wouldn’t believe it.”

  Moodrow’s head was beginning to spin with the energy of Kavecchi’s lament. “Hold it a second,” he ordered, shaking himself awake. “Did you check the empty apartments like I asked you?”

  “That’s another ball-buster,” Kavecchi groaned. “Holy God, what
a problem I had with that one. Unbelievable. I mean how am I supposed to know who’s a tenant and who’s a squatter? The place is a goddamn zoo.”

  Moodrow was suddenly alert. “What are you talking about?”

  “Like I admit I don’t know much about Jackson Heights, but I was under the impression this kinda shit didn’t happen out here. The place is like the Lower East Side. There’s dealers and dopers everywhere. I mean some whore propositioned me in the lobby. And this bitch was out front, man—she pulled up her skirt and flashed me. Then her boyfriend, when he saw I didn’t want the pussy, offered to sell me some crack. I mean I better get a haircut or something. People are makin’ me for a doper and I’m tryin’ to count empty apartments.”

  “Innocencio…”

  “Ino. Please call me Ino. Like EEEE-NO. I mean I’m third generation, already.”

  Moodrow, groaning, suddenly realized that Kavecchi’s voice was the male equivalent of a Lucille Ball screech. “Ino, do me a favor and get to the point. I’m not feelin’ so hot.”

  “I thought I was gonna go nuts, but then I ran into this old guy named Mike Birnbaum. What a fantastic break for me. I mean, like out of the goddamn blue, this guy walks up and asks me am I from Legal Aid and Betty said he should look out for me. He knows everything about the building. Everything.”

  “Just tell me how many empty units, all right?” Moodrow’s voice began to rise. His head was throbbing in anticipation of the figure Kavecchi would give him.