“No, no. He told me there was a shooting in front of the apartments and he gave me some instructions.”
In the end, Moodrow was disappointed. Rosenkrantz freely admitted his part in the assault on the tenants of the Jackson Arms—he went so far as to admit participation in a dozen similar schemes—but he completely denied having any part in the violence. He’d helped to select the targets for eviction and deliberately fired the old superintendent, but his main function was to keep the tenants from organizing. To convince them that Precision Management would handle the problems. At no time was he part of the general planning. Nor did he personally meet any of the squatters, though he’d furnished the lawyer with a list of empty apartments. And, most of all, he had absolutely no idea who, if anyone, stood behind William Holtz.
TWENTY-SIX
MOODROW DROVE DIRECTLY FROM Precision Management to Betty Haluka’s apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He was hoping for a quick trip, but as Precision Management was in eastern Queens and Park Slope was in west-central Brooklyn and it was only seven o’clock, the trip was long enough and slow enough for him to face his disappointment. He’d hoped (even though he knew better) that Rosenkrantz would lead him directly to the owners of Bolt Realty. A futile hope that was doomed from the beginning. Bolt Realty had gone to great lengths to keep its owners away from public scrutiny and there was no reason to suppose the principals would trust their security to a flunky like Al Rosenkrantz.
As he drove, Moodrow tried to occupy himself with the question of who, exactly, had been the target of the brothers Cohan. His initial conviction, that he had been the one slated for execution, had come instinctively, but now, like any good investigator, he had to subject it to an application of cop logic. Working backward, he quickly eliminated the obvious. The attackers were white males, nearly thirty years of age, and clearly atypical in terms of the crack wars of the 80s and 90s. Those wars were being fought on the streets of black and Hispanic ghettos, not in middle-class Jackson Heights. They were also being fought, in the main, by ultraviolent savages masquerading as children. A prime example—the dealers hanging out in front of the Jackson Arms were no more than fifteen years old, ten years younger than the youngest of the assassins. There was a reason, of course, why these children were allowed to function unimpeded by their elders in the drug business. Any dealer with half a brain divorced himself from the street as soon as he had enough capital to participate in the wholesale end of the industry. Those too stupid to make the jump inevitably capped their careers with long, hard periods of incarceration. If they survived at all.
But even if the three dealers had not been the target of the Cohan brothers (they’d actually had their identification in their pockets, another example of their ultimate stupidity), that didn’t mean their target was Stanley Moodrow. One by one, as he drove up onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Moodrow went over the others present at the scene: Dunlap, Betty, the Almeydas. They were all replaceable: Paul Dunlap, from the killers point of view, was only one of 30,000 cops in New York (his cop status also made him an extremely unlikely target for assassination); Betty Haluka was a Legal Aid lawyer, one of thousands, and her efforts to halt the decay of the Jackson Arms amounted to nothing more than harassment; Inez Almeyda, a housewife with little more than anger to contribute to the struggle to save her home was, of course, the most innocent of innocent bystanders.
He, on the other hand, private investigator Stanley Moodrow, was the man pursuing the source; he had already made up his mind not to stop until he found Sylvia Kaufman’s killer. (And the killer of Inez Almeyda and Katerina Nikolis and a fourteen-year-old crack dealer named Roy “Pinwheel” Johnson.) He was also the man who had decked Al Rosenkrantz, a fact certainly reported to the fat man’s employers. His willingness to step away from the narrow line of the law was certain to set off an alarm in the mind of a criminal, criminals being only too aware of the short-term advantages to be derived from a highly developed contempt for the law.
Of course, there was always the chance that the Cohan brothers hadn’t been after anyone in particular. Maybe the attack had been no more than a faked drive-by with assault rifles, a message to send the tenants packing while the cops searched their files, looking for Queens crack czars. Nevertheless, prudence dictated that he consider himself a target. For the same practical reasons, he should have considered Betty a target, as well, but he wasn’t ready to face what he’d done at the scene. Sooner or later, he would have to probe his actions with the same cop logic driving his present speculations, but not then and there. Better to deal with the victims, to psych himself up for the chase.
Betty’s apartment was empty when Moodrow finally arrived, and there was no sign that she’d come home and gone out again. A phone call to the 115th Precinct produced a detective named Downey who told Moodrow that all the witnesses had given statements and gone home. Likewise for Porky Dunlap and, yes, the Legal Aid lawyer had been given a ride back to somewhere, maybe Brooklyn. How long ago? At least two hours.
A sudden feeling of apprehension washed over Moodrow as he laid the phone down and went back to the car. The fear had no basis in “cop logic”; not even in the “cop instincts” sitting at the source of his pride. Maybe she was angry with him. Maybe she thought him a coward or…But he didn’t want to think about alternatives. He wanted to drive home and find her waiting for him and he did it quickly, cutting in and out of the heavy traffic on Flatbush Avenue. When he climbed the stairs to his fourth floor apartment and found her sitting with her back against his door, he was so relieved, he stopped in his tracks.
“Stanley,” she said, “you son of a bitch. I thought you were dead. Where did you go?” She came off the floor in a hurry, running toward him, throwing her arms around him. “You bastard. You dirty bastard. How could you disappear like that?” Crying, as much from the remembered fear as relief to find him in one piece. “I want to go inside. I want us to get undressed and into bed. Please, Stanley. I’ve been thinking about it for hours. I want to get into bed and I want you to tell me what happened.”
Ten minutes later, the front door bolted behind them, they huddled under the covers, sipping at glasses of bourbon, speaking softly, darting around the central issue. Inez Almeyda was dead, as was Katerina Nikolis and the dealer. The Almeyda children were unhurt, though devastated by the violence, while their father, Andre Almeyda, was in shock, alternately vowing revenge and weeping uncontrollably.
The Chief of Patrol, Sean Murphy, had made his will known to Inspector Mario Gerardi, his hatchetman, who’d passed it on to Captain George Serrano, Commander of the 115th Precinct. All illegal tenants (regardless of political conviction) would be arrested for criminal trespass and charged with breaking and entering. Despite there being virtually no chance for any convictions, the apartments would be classified as crime scenes and padlocked as they were cleared. They would not be rerented without NYPD approval. The landlord (or his agent) would be sought out and informed that only cooperation stood between Bolt Realty and a full-scale, multiagency investigation. Once things had settled down, anticrime would keep the building under surveillance until Serrano was sure nobody was coming back.
“So that’s it for the Jackson Arms,” Moodrow said. “The bad guys lost. Along with everybody living there.”
“The price was too high,” Betty said. The bourbon, which under other conditions would have made her choke, was sending a warm glow directly to the place where the fear had been. She could feel the muscles in her back relaxing, one by one. Casually, she turned toward Moodrow, throwing one leg across his thighs.
“The price is the price,” Moodrow said. “How do you figure it’s too high?”
“A lot of innocent people died, Stanley. And the motherfuckers tried to kill you. Don’t pretend it’s not true. I’ve been thinking about it for hours and it’s the only thing that makes sense. If they wanted to frighten the tenants, they’d do it at three o’clock when the kids come home. Or at five when people come home from work
.”
“You’re right.” Moodrow cut her off. He was amazed (and very happy) to discover that she’d seen through the charade. “I think they were after me. It could have been you or Paul Dunlap, but I think it was me.”
“And it’s because they’re afraid of you?”
“Most likely that’s it.”
“And they’ll probably try again.”
Moodrow grunted. “They came after me and it completely destroyed their project. Maybe they’ll learn a lesson. Maybe not. But either way I figure they don’t have more than a couple of weeks until I catch up with them. I’m not really too crazy about getting shot at.”
They were quiet for a few moments, lying close to one another. Moodrow, his arm around Betty’s shoulders, could feel the ebb and flow of her breathing. He expected her to fall asleep and her question caught him off guard.
“What happened this afternoon?” she asked. “My head was buried in your chest and I couldn’t see any of it. Tell me what happened.”
“Paul Dunlap…”
“I mean with you and me, Stanley. I mean about what you did.”
Moodrow sat up in the bed, turning his back to Betty Haluka. He was very uncomfortable; it wasn’t in his nature to say things to another person that he couldn’t say to himself. On the other hand, if he remained silent or tried to evade the truth, Betty would know it immediately and her knowledge would have consequences that also frightened him.
“I wanted to protect you,” he said. “But it was bullshit protection. I should have thrown you to the ground, but all I could do was hold you. Military weapons like those Uzis can shoot through car doors. My back wasn’t any protection. By holding you upright, I only put you in greater danger.”
Betty laid one hand gently on his shoulder. She was going to pull him around until she could see his eyes, but thought better of it. “Still, in your own mind, you believed you were protecting me.”
“I didn’t think at all. I wasn’t even there.” He drew a deep breath; he didn’t want to talk about this and he could feel resentment beginning to grow. He knew it was better not to let that build up. “Do you know about Rita?” he finally asked.
Betty, as she felt the blush rising in her throat, was glad she hadn’t turned her lover around. She’d spent an afternoon with Rose Carillo talking about Moodrow’s former girlfriend, Rita Melengic. Gossiping behind Moodrow’s back had been delicious. “She used to be your girlfriend.”
Moodrow didn’t stop to consider how Betty had come by the information, though he’d think about it later on. “I was crazy about her,” he announced, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It was very unexpected, because I had chances when I was younger and I hadn’t felt that way before. We had only been living together about a month when it happened. She and I were tryin’ it out, thinking about getting married, but what happened was that I saw her get killed. I don’t wanna get too dramatic, but in some ways it was like this afternoon. They weren’t after Rita. She was standing on a corner waiting for me and I was coming up Sixth Avenue. I had no idea what was about to happen, just like today. It’d be very strange if I hadn’t been in some tight spots after thirty-five years in the job, but I could see those situations coming. When you’re walking down a dark corridor toward an apartment where you expect to find large amounts of contraband, you get yourself ready for gunfire. But when it’s someone you care about, when you’re not expecting it at all, it comes on you very different. I remember that the afternoon was real hot and I don’t do so well in the heat. We were going shopping at A&S in Herald Square and, naturally, all the big stores were air conditioned, so that’s what I was thinking about. I saw Rita standing in front of the store from about half a block away. She was waving to me and then she was gone. I was about to step into the street. My foot was in the air and then she was gone. Today, when…”
Moodrow’s voice trailed off. Like a talking doll when the string winds back into its body. Betty wanted to take him in her arms. A dozen questions jumped to her lips, but she held back somehow. As if her hand, still resting gently on his shoulder, had already passed her thoughts between them.
“You always believe those things eventually go away,” Moodrow began abruptly, his voice stronger. “You have to believe that, because if you don’t, you’ll lose control. You expect to feel bad for a while. Maybe you even get torn up, but sooner or later it goes away. That’s what I always believed, but this afternoon I didn’t know where I was. I had my eyes closed and I was seeing Sixth Avenue, but I could hear what was happening in Queens. Every sound was sharp and clear. They just didn’t match the movie playing in my head. All I could really think about was losing you.” He shrugged her hand away, then turned to face her. “I think I’ve had enough of that in my life.”
By the time Leonora Higgins called, at ten o’clock, Betty and Moodrow had done what lovers do to restore basic equilibrium. Their lovemaking, complemented by the bourbon, had driven their fear into hiding; now the job was to keep it penned up. Betty had dozens of questions about how Moodrow expected to proceed and what he intended to do if he got to the source of the violence, but she held them back. She recognized, dimly, that her own role was probably over. Inspector Gerardi, in her presence, had made a phone call to William Holtz, attorney for Bolt Realty, explaining the delicacy of the situation and casually mentioning the possibility of a joint task force composed of Fire Department, HPD, and NYPD personnel. Gerardi had explained exactly what he intended to do to the squatters and Holtz had assured him of Bolt Realty’s full cooperation—the padlocked apartments would not be rerented without approval. Holtz had even offered to furnish Gerardi with an accurate list of unleased units.
None of this, of course, brought Moodrow any closer to his quarry. Leonora’s phone call, on the other hand, brought a piece of information that gave Moodrow considerable optimism for the immediate future. Leonora’s voice was chipper. She had no sense of the scene she was interrupting.
“How’s Betty doing?” she asked, ignoring him altogether.
“She’s doing okay,” Moodrow returned. “I’m gonna put her on the extension, if you don’t mind.”
Betty and Leonora exchanged greetings, then Leonora, perhaps in deference to the hour, got into the meat of her information. “I finally gained access to the Department of State computer by pretending I was from the Department of Finance investigating a failure to file a corporate tax return. They change the password for those files every few weeks and it’s hard to get it. Anyway, Bolt Realty is owned by a Delaware Corporation called, if you can believe this, the Flatbush Realty Corporation.”
“Are you serious?” Moodrow interrupted. “Another corporation? This is bullshit.”
“Wait a second, Stanley. It gets better. When you file an application for a corporate charter in New York State, someone has to swear to the truth of the information and that someone has to be an officer, though not necessarily a stockholder. The charter for Bolt Realty was filed by the president of the company, Simon Chambers. I have an address for him, but no phone number. Why don’t you take it down?”
Moodrow fumbled for a pen, then took the address, a street in Sheepshead Bay on the southern end of Brooklyn. He was looking for a way to get off the phone without insulting Leonora (maybe a quick thank-you for the information, followed by a good-bye and the instantaneous acknowledgment of his sudden need for rest) when Leonora floored him with a piece of information she, herself, considered old news.
“Congratulations on getting the arsonist,” she said matter-of-factly.
“What’re you talking about?” The sentence, much to his dismay, was nearly a scream.
“I thought you knew about it. Dunlap matched a print last night. He was all over the Queens District Attorney’s office, trying to find out if it’s enough for an arrest warrant. The cops are looking for the torch right now.”
“How come you heard about it?” Moodrow demanded. The anger was rising between his ears like the steam in a sixty-year-old tenement. “Yo
u’re in Manhattan.”
“The Jackson Arms is a big story. Can’t you see the headline: Crack Comes to the White Folks. It’s like Man Bites Dog.”
Moodrow laughed bitterly. “Is that what they think? That it’s drugs?”
“That’s what I hear.” Leonora stopped, abruptly. “I suppose you think it’s something else?”
“I don’t have any proof,” Moodrow offered lamely.
“Do me a favor, Stanley. When you get proof, give me a call. Now that you’re a civilian, I’ll need a head start if I’m gonna save your ass.”
“Good night, Leonora.”
“Nighty-night, Stanley. Night, Betty.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
April 21
ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Moodrow got himself out of the bed just before the sun came up, rising to the smell of the percolator and Betty, in her red terry-cloth bathrobe, moving purposefully about the kitchen.
“You want coffee, Stanley,” she called cheerfully.
“Bless thee, woman.” It was a little after six and the Lower East Side was beginning to stir. Moodrow liked being up at this time, drawing his own work energy from the men and women trudging toward the subway. His working days inevitably began within his own mind, with problems that needed resolution (usually, the same problems he’d gone to sleep with) and Betty’s presence made no difference. He used her, as he’d once used a woman named Rita Melengic, for a sounding board.
“I think the best thing about this President of Bolt Realty…What’s his name? Simon Chambers? The best thing about him is that I don’t have to find a way to confront the lawyer, Holtz.” Moodrow had high hopes that, between the lead given to him by Leonora Higgins and the identification of the arsonist, the end of the road was well within reach. On the other hand, Holtz was undoubtedly the hub of the operation; he would know virtually everything about the criminals who ran Bolt Realty, but Moodrow could not simply walk up to an attorney and lean on him the way he’d leaned on poor Al Rosenkrantz. The concept of fang and claw didn’t apply to lawyers: you could beat them down with paper, but not with your fists.
Forced Entry Page 28