“That’s what you said last night.”
“Well, the situation hasn’t changed.”
“Maybe the lawyer will turn on his client,” Betty suggested hopefully.
“Maybe he will,” Moodrow admitted, “but I can’t sit and wait for that to happen. For all we know, the lawyer’s just accepting rent money and paying the mortgage.”
Setting down her coffee, Betty came up behind Moodrow and began to massage his neck and shoulders. As always, she was impressed with his bulk. He seemed to be made of hard rubber, to be without bones, even at the point of his shoulder or the back of his neck.
“I feel much better today, Stanley,” she said finally. “I didn’t dream about it last night. For the first time. I didn’t see it again.”
“I knew that would happen,” Moodrow said, covering one of her hands with his own.
“But that doesn’t mean I want to see anyone get off. It doesn’t mean that at all.”
Moodrow smiled, then changed the subject abruptly. “What interests me this minute is confessions. Now that I’m not a cop anymore, do I still have to give the same warnings? What if I grab Najowski and shake him until he opens up? Put it all on videotape. Would it be admissible?”
“What makes you think you wouldn’t be arrested for assault? If there was any sign of duress on the tape, you could be the one making the confession. But don’t worry, Stanley, I’ll defend you for…let’s say half your pension.”
“What if I took a confession without appearing on the tape?” Moodrow ignored the humor. “What if I passed the tape, along with any documents connecting Najowski with Blanks or the Jackson Arms, to Leonora Higgins? Suppose she got the lawyer, Holtz, to turn on Najowski. What would happen if you put it all together?”
“No judge will admit a confession that was obtained under duress. Even suspected duress. Judges think the state should be able to build a case without confessions. Also, how will a judge know that evidence you seize illegally really came from Najowski’s home? A document with Najowski’s name on it is evidence, but a pound of cocaine might have come from anywhere. A private citizen doesn’t have the same kind of believability as a cop.”
“Suppose,” Moodrow said, “I find a way to trick Najowski into confessing? Suppose I do it in a way that he can’t claim he was forced?”
“Stanley, criminals testify against each other all the time. A man goes into jail, talks too much to his cellmate and the next thing he knows, the cellmate is testifying against him in court. There was no Miranda warning given, because the cellmate wasn’t an agent of law enforcement. But if the police put an undercover cop in the cell and the accused made the same confession, it would be completely inadmissible.”
Moodrow seemed to relax for the first time. “With that much room,” he announced, “I don’t think it’s gonna be a problem. I’m bound to figure something out.”
When Leonora Higgins called from her office, Moodrow and Betty were in the shower, disproving the cliché that equates a clean mind with a clean body. Moodrow, who was waiting to hear from Jim Tilley, stumbled out of the steamy bathroom, grabbed the phone and muttered something like, “I’ll call ya back in a fuckin’ minute, all right?” Then hung up.
The phone rang again before he closed the bathroom door, and this time Leonora began speaking before he could say a word.
“Don’t you dare hang up the phone, old man,” she said. “I’m the one who only has a ‘fuckin’ minute.’ You’re the one who’s unemployed, remember?”
“Leonora,” Moodrow groaned, reorienting himself as he went along. “I thought it was Tilley. What’s up?”
“Good news, Stanley. Holtz is going down. We’re arresting him this afternoon.”
Moodrow felt his spirits rising—in direct contrast to his penis—as she spoke the word “arresting.” “What have you got him for?”
“Forgery in the first degree. Falsifying business records. Offering a false instrument for filing. Tampering with public records. Insurance fraud. Conspiracy in the second degree. Two E felonies. One D felony. Two C felonies. One B felony.”
“If you run that consecutively, he’ll come out of jail on a respirator,” Moodrow observed happily. “What’s the conspiracy?”
Leonora laughed. “Rosenkrantz fell apart. Cried like a big, fat baby. He says Holtz ordered him to cut off services to the building, to violate leases, to hire thugs to break the locks and mailboxes. He says Holtz supplied him with a list of criminals to fill the vacant apartments. Stanley, the head of the securities division says we can use Holtz to get to the owner of the Jackson Arms. Trade some years for some names.”
“I already have the names, Leonora. I’m not as retired as everybody wants to believe.” Quickly, he ran down the last few days’ events, including Babbit (who was already in police custody), Babbit’s connection with Blanks and the legally useless means by which he’d gotten the name of Marek Najowski. “I guarantee,” he finished, “that Blanks hired the Cohan brothers and Maurice Babbit. That lets Najowski off the hook for any of the big stuff.”
Leonora’s voice was resigned, the voice of someone accustomed to the vagaries of justice. “We can still get him for conspiracy. That’s a B felony and it calls for a minimum six years. Six to twenty-five. That’s not chopped liver, Stanley.”
“It ain’t justice, either. I’ll see ya later.”
Jim Tilley began to bang on the front door before the phone was back on the hook. Like a silent movie comedian, Moodrow gazed wistfully at Betty, who peered around the shower curtain, her naked body a shadow against the running water. Accepting the inevitable, she plucked a towel from the rack and threw it out to Moodrow, then climbed into her bathrobe and headed for the bedroom. Moodrow stopped her briefly as she went past him.
“See how it is?” he asked. “You flop around like a walrus out of water, working your ass off and getting nowhere. Then you hit the right track and you get pushed along with no effort at all. Ever watch the sea gulls over by the Jersey palisades? They come off the river struggling so hard you think they’re gonna sink back into the water, then they catch a rising air current and jump a hundred feet in a few seconds.”
An hour later, Jim Tilley and Stanley Moodrow were sitting outside a five-story brownstone at 1010 Grace Court, in Brooklyn Heights. Tilley had gotten Najowski’s unlisted phone number and address by giving a shield number (not his own) to a NYNEX supervisor. A test call had been rewarded with Najowski proclaiming that he was on vacation, that his machine was doing announcements only, that no messages would be recorded.
“I think we’ve gotta stake the place out,” Tilley contended. “The message says he’ll be gone for a few days. He’ll turn up if we wait.”
“By then, half the NYPD is gonna be waiting with us. I don’t give the lawyer’s honor twenty-four hours. Guys like Holtz crap out before they get into a cell. Jail’s what they’re really scared of, anyway. They can do the time, but they don’t care for the company. Holtz’ll give up Najowski and the detectives will show up to make an arrest. I was kinda hoping we could get to Najowski first.”
“I can’t say as I blame you,” Tilley responded, “but I still don’t see how we’re gonna find your boy in twenty-four hours.”
“You’re right. That’s impossible. The fucking guy could be anywhere and if we start questioning his neighbors, it’ll get back to him. What I was thinking is that I got this ex-con who works with me a little. Name’s Pat Sheehan. Specializes in locks and safes. Claims he can use picks, drills, explosives. What about if we send him inside? There might be documents in the apartment. Some link with Blanks.”
“A fuckin’ convict? Why would you wanna work with an asshole like that? You could never count on a criminal. He’d sell you out in a second.”
Moodrow pushed back against the seat, reveling in the comfort of Tilley’s Buick. “I’m not asking the guy to fucking marry me. He wants to work and I got work for him. Besides, I think he’s all right.”
Tilley star
ed at Najowski’s building for a moment, before changing the subject. “Did I tell you what my partner did to me last week?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.” Moodrow was settled in for the time being, watching and waiting. Hoping someone would come along to lead them to Najowski—a friend, a deliveryman, a business acquaintance.
“We worked a full week on a precinct homicide. Staked out like we are now. We knew who did the killing, asshole named Oray Donaldson, but we didn’t know where he was and we were watching a soup kitchen on Rector Street where he liked to go to eat. One day, my partner calls me and says his wife’s sick and he’s not coming in, which is okay by me because I can’t stand the bastard. Meanwhile, there’s nothing wrong with his old lady. He found out through one of his snitches where Donaldson was hiding out and made the arrest by himself. Now the lieutenant wants to know where I was. Was I fucking off? How come I’m not ambitious? Maybe I was appointed to the detectives too soon. And I gotta stand there and take it.”
Moodrow held up his hand. “Cool down a second, Jim. Partnerships in the job are temporary. Why don’t you ask for a new assignment?”
“Oh, I’m looking for a new assignment, all right. I’m thinking about leaving the department altogether. When you retired, I was real gung-ho about working for the community, but I don’t see how I’m gonna do it. I know for a fact that Captain Ruiz is trying to get me out of the 7th. He’s got a hatchetman, named Ocasio, who ‘deals with potential problems before they happen.’ Ruiz thinks I’m a potential problem and I think he’s right.”
“What does Rose say about this?” Moodrow, stunned, managed to ask.
“Rose’s making $45,000 working for the city. It’s enough to keep us going while I start something else.”
“And what would that be?”
Tilley’s voice suddenly dropped two octaves as he gestured toward the black woman standing in front of 1010 Grace Court. “What do you make of that?”
Moodrow didn’t know whether Tilley was referring to the woman’s strange wardrobe, a lustrous peach jacket over a torn gray housecoat, or the fact that her finger was pressing on the second of three buzzers, the one belonging to Marek Najowski. He understood the question, though. Nothing pleases a cop so much as a situation that demands an explanation.
THIRTY-FOUR
MARIE PORTER DIDN’T KNOW whether to be angry or relieved. On the one hand, she’d come all the way out to Brooklyn for nothing. Marie was one of those Manhattanites who equated a trip to the outer boroughs of New York City with a journey to the Twilight Zone; whenever she left “the city” on business, she expected to be well-rewarded. On the other hand, when repeated pushes on Marek Najowski’s buzzer brought absolutely no response, she realized that she wasn’t going to have to service the Freak and that made her happy. She wouldn’t have to cook his dinner. Or respond with downcast eyes when he called her. Or scrub an already spotless floor.
Marie took a deep breath, pulling the mild spring air into her lungs. Small clusters of sturdy tulips bloomed in tiny front yards, echoing the first rush of lacy young leaves to trees that seemed to grow out of the sidewalks. She had almost six hours before her next date. Where would she go? The Brooklyn Heights Promenade, with its spectacular view of lower Manhattan, was only a few steps away. It was a place she often sought after a session with the Freak, a place to get clean again. But this time she wanted to feel earth instead of concrete beneath her feet. The cold towers of Manhattan, even against the blue spring sky, would not feed the day’s desires.
Suddenly she had a delicious idea—a taxi to her home, a change of clothes, a drive up to Central Park. There were huge beds of tulips throughout the southern reaches of the Park, as well as trees and shrubbery from all over the world. A long walk in the park instead of sex with the Freak? A light lunch at Tavern on the Green instead of a pail of hot soapy water? The best part was that she was going to charge George Wang for every bit of it. She’d wanted to dump the Freak a month ago, but George Wang had merely raised the price and sent her back. Maybe this would convince him to cut the Freak loose, once and for all.
As she came back along the short walkway, Marie looked up at the glowing leaves on a young sugar maple and took another deep breath. She felt as if she could fly away, as if the breeze would pick her up and float her across the river to Manhattan. She might have stood there for a long time, willing herself into weightlessness, if Moodrow hadn’t come up behind her. His homely words provided the anchor that brought her back down.
“What’re you supposed to be,” he asked, “the fuckin’ earth mother?”
“Pardon me?” Her first impression was one of size. The man confronting her was enormous. It wasn’t until she raised her eyes far enough to see his face, that she put the word “cop” and the word “big” together.
“Police officer,” Jim Tilley said, stepping around Moodrow to display his gold shield.
As a black woman from the vast ghettos of northern Manhattan, Marie Porter’s initial reaction to Moodrow and Tilley was automatic. She felt a blind street impulse to run. Then she reminded herself that she wasn’t committing a crime by walking through a white Brooklyn community (how could she, with her coconspirator nowhere to be found?). Even if Brooklyn Heights was a certified landmark neighborhood. Her second panic (once she’d cleared herself of prostitution) centered around drugs and drug paraphernalia. After years of low-level addiction, the fear of arrest and involuntary drug withdrawal was very real, even if there was no probable cause for a search and she’d eventually be released. Except that Marie Porter was no longer using illegal drugs and hadn’t used them for more than a year.
Suddenly, she was very angry. And not with the two cops who stood in front of her. The cops weren’t after her; they were after the Freak and somehow she was involved. A wave of hatred, as physical as nausea, swept through her body, twisting her mouth into a tight frown.
“My name’s Tilley and this is Moodrow,” the smaller man said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. There was nothing she could do about it, anyway, and she followed them back to the old Buick without a protest.
“You’re here to see Marek Najowski, right?” Tilley said.
Marie, unable to fabricate a plausible lie, nodded once.
“And what was your business with Mr. Najowski?”
The question, from the same cop, was expected, and Marie answered without pausing. “I’m the maid.”
“The maid?” Moodrow’s voice was filled with contempt. “That’s fucking pitiful.” He pointed to her shoes, a pair of two-hundred-dollar Karl Lagerfeld boots from Saks. She’d drooled over them for months before buying them, waiting so long to see them on sale, she’d become afraid they’d be discontinued before she got her hands on them. “I suppose those’re some kinda scrub boots?”
“Just because I’m a maid, it doesn’t mean I don’t like nice things.” Her shoes, of course, along with the peach jacket, would have been removed the minute she entered Najowski’s apartment.
“You’re a hooker,” the big cop said flatly. “Not that we give a shit. We’re after Najowski and we want your cooperation. Excuse me, one way or another, we’re gonna get your cooperation. What’s Marek to you, anyway? Why would you wanna protect a trick?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Marie protested.
Moodrow pointed to the healed punctures on the backs of her hands. “You’re also a junkie,” he announced. “You got tracks.”
“I was a junkie,” she admitted. “I’m clean now.” The big cop, she realized, was being deliberately antagonistic. His voice was filled with suspicion, as if she was Marek’s business partner instead of his sexual partner. Not that she cared if he made her for a whore. She was a whore. “Why do you want Marek?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
“I thought we were asking the fucking questions,” Moodrow said to his partner. “I thought we were the cops. Jim, you better help me out here. I�
��m gettin’confused.”
“Be cool, Stanley,” Tilley said, stepping in front of his partner. “I think the lady wants to help us. That right?”
“Sure,” Marie said agreeably.
“What’s your name?”
“Marie Porter.” She might as well admit it. All her identification, including her credit cards, were in her real name. It’d been that long since she’d been on the street.
“Well, Marie, your pal Marek’s been a very bad boy,” Moodrow said. “He made a fire and this little old lady got killed by the smoke. He had another little old lady raped. And an old man got beat up and a sixteen-year-old kid got killed. Things like that. I mean he might be good in the sack. Or maybe he’s very generous. But he’s also a killer. In fact, he even tried to kill me. That’s why you’re gonna help us out.”
Marie felt the anger rush back into her body as she recalled the Freak’s hands on her flesh. The humiliations he demanded flashed through her consciousness like a series of rapid-fire slides from a projector. “I knew he was sick,” she admitted. “I tried to get out of seeing him, but my pimp…” Marie could, feel the cops’ interest, not unlike the sexual organs of her male customers, rising.
“What do you want to know about Marek?” she asked. “I mean I wasn’t exactly close to him.”
“We’re interested in some property he owned. He had a partner from Hell’s Kitchen.”
Marie tried to recall the exact details of a conversation she’d listened to while confined to Najowski’s spare bedroom. Najowski’s partner had been a dinner guest and they’d spoken of their plans for some building in Queens. “I don’t remember exactly,” she said carefully. “Some tricks like to talk. You know what I mean, right? After you take care of them, they go on and on. I don’t usually pay much attention, but I do recall a building in Queens that he was trying to get people out of. He was checking leases and moving dealers, cocaine dealers, I think, into the vacant apartments. He was real proud of himself, but I got the impression that the violence was coming from his partner.”
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