Pat Cohan had spelled it out best when he’d insisted that a cop’s first loyalty is to the Department, not to the Constitution of the United States or the New York State Penal Code. McElroy was protecting the Department’s fat butt. When that butt was no longer exposed, he (and the rest of the Department) would look for revenge. If, when the time came, Stanley Moodrow was the hero detective who’d arrested a quadruple murderer, it wouldn’t hurt his case at all.
Moodrow stood up and walked over to Marone’s office. “I’m goin’ inside and find out what’s happening. This is bullshit.”
“Don’t get crazy,” Epstein said brusquely. “You can’t put heat on a judge. If you try it, you’ll lose him for the future. Assuming you don’t intend to find another career, you’re gonna need judges like you’re gonna need stool pigeons. There’s no way to work without ’em.”
But Judge Marone didn’t get sore when Moodrow barged into his chambers. He was apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” he said, tapping his desk with a nervous forefinger, “I forgot all about it. I’m sentencing a convicted murderer tomorrow and I’ve got to decide whether he lives or dies. My problem is that I don’t believe the death penalty has any effect on crime. If I had my way, I’d never send a man to his death no matter what he did. But there’s the question of the law. I’m obliged to submit to the will of the legislature. The legislature is obliged to submit to the will of the people. If the people want the death penalty-and they most assuredly do, they yearn for it like vampires yearn for blood-who am I to oppose them?”
“And don’t forget,” Moodrow said brightly, “you’re gonna have to go back to those vampires when you run for reelection.”
Marone, much to Moodrow’s surprise, laughed out loud. “Yes, there’s that, too,” he said. “That, too. But it doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that I have to read one hundred and seventy-two letters from ‘concerned citizens’ before I pass sentence. So far, half of them are demanding that I let the kid off with life. That’s what he is, by the way, a seventeen-year-old, semi-retarded, Puerto Rican kid. The other half want to fry me if I don’t give him the chair. What happened to you is that you got lost in the shuffle. I apologize.”
Moodrow watched the judge flip through the papers on his desk until he found the two sheets he was looking for. He scanned them quickly before scrawling his signature on the bottom. The whole process took thirty seconds.
“Thanks, Your Honor,” Moodrow said, repressing a smile.
“Just doing my job, son. Don’t forget, you’re a voter, too. Come back whenever you need me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Moodrow and Epstein were sitting in front of Jake Leibowitz’s last known address. Or, rather, they were sitting half a block away which was as close as they could get. The rest of the block was packed with police cruisers and unmarked detectives’ cars.
“It doesn’t have to be related,” Moodrow groaned. “But why do I know it is?”
“Cheer up, Stanley. If it’s Jake Leibowitz, it’s all over.”
Moodrow looked at Epstein. “More likely it’s the poor cop who came to arrest him.”
But there was no point in speculating. Both men got out of the car and walked the half block to Jake’s building. A knot of detectives and uniformed patrolman stood outside, Detective Lieutenant Michael Rosten among them. Moodrow, smiling now, flashed his badge.
“Detective Moodrow,” he announced.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rosten said, moving away from the pack. His expression was neutral, without a hint of the anger Moodrow assumed he must be feeling.
“Somebody get to Jake Leibowitz?” Moodrow ignored the question.
Rosten took his time before answering. His eyes remained blank as he recited the facts. “We’ve got an unidentified DOA in apartment 5C. We’ve got a fifty-five-year-old female perpetrator, one Sarah Leibowitz, who claims she killed the victim in self-defense. The perpetrator suffered a severe head injury, possibly at the hands of the DOA, and has been transported to Bellevue Hospital.”
“Transported? That’s a good one.”
“Stanley, can I talk to you a minute?” Epstein pulled Moodrow to one side. He was smiling, but his voice was as sharp as a razor. “Listen, you asshole, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t flush my career down the toilet along with your own. You think you’re gonna get any closer to Jake Leibowitz by insulting a lieutenant? Maybe you took too many shots to the head and you’re losin’ it.”
“Look, Sarge, this lieutenant wanted to put me in jail. Remember? And he was willing to sign a false affidavit to do it. You expect me to kiss his ass?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. In fact, that’s exactly what I expect. And if you think it’s too much for you, tell me right now. So I can walk away before I end up directing traffic in the Midtown Tunnel.”
“Sarge …”
“I’m not joking, Stanley.” Epstein’s voice was much softer, but no less determined. “Right now, thanks to you, I’m a hero. I’m a neutral go-between, keeping you in line while protecting the Department’s interests. If Rosten or McElroy come to the conclusion that I’ve taken sides, the black mark’ll follow me for the next twenty years. Which is how long I expect to stick around.”
Moodrow started to respond, but Epstein cut him off. “I’m gonna go back and talk to Rosten. You, on the other hand, are gonna stay here and keep your mouth shut. This is not a difficult thing, Stanley, but you might wanna take notes so you don’t forget. We’re looking for cooperation here and we’re not gonna get it by making the lieutenant sore. Remember, the captain ordered him to back off.”
Epstein spun around and marched back over to Rosten. “Look, lieutenant,” he said, loud enough for Moodrow to hear, “we’ve got a warrant to search the Leibowitz apartment. What’s the chance of getting in there?”
“Getting in there when?” Rosten answered. “The Medical Examiner won’t be here for another two hours. He’s working a multiple on East 72nd Street. Nobody goes in there until the M.E. clears the body. This you already know. After the M.E.’s finished, the lab boys take their turn. That’s standard procedure, which you also know. What I’m telling you is to get in line, because after the lab boys clear the crime scene, the detective in charge, John Samuelson, will conduct a complete search of the premises.”
“John Samuelson?”
“He was next up when the squeal came through. That’s the way it’s done, sergeant. Being a patrolman, I suppose you didn’t know that.”
“Yeah? Well, lieutenant, being a patrolman and not a detective, I do know where my first loyalties lie. Did the captain okay this?”
Rosten’s composure broke for the first time. “It’s not McElroy’s business. He’s not a detective.”
“He’s the precinct commander, lieutenant. In the Seventh Precinct, he’s accountable for everything. Look, I know we can’t enter the apartment before the M.E. and forensics finish up. Far be it from me to compromise a crime scene. But there’s no way Samuelson’s gonna go in there ahead of us. Not without the captain personally giving me his okay. Look at it like this. First, we’re in the process of gathering evidence on a man suspected of having committed four murders. Second, you already know who killed your unidentified DOA. You’ve got a statement. Third, this case is so fucking dirty, if you had half a brain you wouldn’t come within ten miles of it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you don’t instruct Samuelson not to enter that apartment without Stanley or me looking over his shoulder, I’m gonna get McElroy down here to instruct him for you. Samuelson is completely compromised in this situation and you goddamned well know it.”
Rosten shook visibly. “I’ll tell you what, sergeant. Say the word and I’ll hand the case over to the jerk standing behind you.”
“No way,” Moodrow said before Epstein could take Rosten up on his offer. “The jerk has two warrants in his pocket. Both drawn up by an assistant district attor
ney and signed by the Honorable Judge Marone. He intends to execute the both of ’em and he doesn’t need any distractions. Maybe after the jerk gets that done, he’ll have time to enjoy the vacation Sal Patero forced him to take.”
Rosten turned away from them without another word and walked into the building. Moodrow started to follow, but Epstein held him back.
“Give it a couple of minutes, Stanley. Let him do what he’s gotta do in private. Remember, there’s still a warrant out for you.”
Moodrow stopped, then grinned broadly. “By the way, Sarge, I wanna thank you for the lesson in self-control. You really showed me the smart way to get cooperation. And I want you to know that I took detailed notes, just like you asked me to. You want a copy to give to the rookies?”
Rosten came down five minutes later. An infuriated John Samuelson trailed behind him. “I decided to take your advice,” Rosten said to Allen Epstein. “Paul Maguire’s gonna handle this investigation. He’s upstairs. I instructed him to cooperate and he agreed. That satisfactory?”
“Sure.”
“But there is one thing, sergeant. I’m going to have to see those warrants with my own eyes. I’d be derelict in my duty if I didn’t.” His gaze moved from Epstein to Moodrow, a thin smile spreading across his face. “You don’t hand them over, I’m going to bar you from entering the building.” He paused again. “If you want to call McElroy, there’s a phone booth in the candy store on the corner. I’ll lend you the dime.”
“Why should we get sore?” Moodrow said. He pulled the warrant from his pockets and carefully unfolded them. “Don’t touch, lieutenant. Just read and remember.” Moodrow knew what was coming. He also knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“This warrant only mentions one victim, Luis Melenguez,” Rosten said after a moment. “You claimed there were four murders.”
“You can only fry a man once,” Moodrow responded. “No matter how many times you throw the switch.”
“You have a point there, Moodrow.” Rosten stepped back and stared directly into Moodrow’s eyes. “On the other hand, if you let the perpetrator live, you can hurt him every single day of his miserable fucking life. Now, what I’m gonna do is go back to the house and get an APB out on Leibowitz. And I’m gonna personally attend the next three roll calls so I can pass out Leibowitz’s photo and spur the troops on with a rousing pep talk. Of course, I’ll have to warn them, too. I’ll have to say that Jake Leibowitz is suspected of having committed four murders and that he’s extremely dangerous. Be quite a feather in the cap of the man who takes him down.”
“Especially if he shoots him in the back, right?”
Rosten didn’t bother to answer. He turned away and began to shout at the lounging patrolmen. “Let’s get these cars out of here. I want everybody back to work. This isn’t a holiday. There’s criminals out there. Let’s nab ’em.”
“Just great,” Moodrow muttered. “When you give your pep talk, do it just like that.” He watched Rosten walk away for a moment, then shook his head admiringly. Rosten had prepared a trap and he’d blundered into it like a stupid lumbering bear. He was now obliged to stay on the scene until the Medical Examiner and the lab boys finished working. Meanwhile, every cop in the 7th would be looking for Jake Leibowitz.
“What are you thinking, Stanley?” Epstein asked. “I can see the little wheels turning in your head.”
“Rosten thinks I’m after his ass. His and Pat Cohan’s. But that’s not the point at all. The Department is here to stay. If I want to keep on being a cop, I have to accept that. Which doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. I wanted to arrest Leibowitz myself. You know what I’m saying, Sarge. I wanted to put the cuffs on with my own hands and that doesn’t seem too likely, now. On the other hand, before I came along …”
“It sounds like you’re taking this personally,” Epstein replied.
“Yeah, that’s just the word I would’ve used. Personal. It’s a good word, Sarge. Keeps you interested.”
Twenty-nine
What it is, is I’ve lost almost everything I value, Pat Cohan thought, and I don’t want to lose the little I have left.
It was really that simple. He’d known the truth of it as he’d handed his retirement papers to Deputy Chief Morton. It’d sunk into him like droplets of rain sinking down between grains of desert sand. He could still feel it in every pore of his skin.
“Pat,” Morton had said, “this isn’t necessary.”
But Morton hadn’t refused to accept them. No, he’d dumped Inspector Pat Cohan’s retirement papers in a desk drawer, then sucked on his pipe like the gutless fairy he was.
“How long have you been on the job, Pat?” Morton had asked.
“Thirty-seven years. Since January eighth, 1921. I’ve seen a lot over the decades, but I’ve never seen a deal as dirty as this. When the Department takes the word of a rookie detective with five years in the job over the word of a full inspector … let’s just say the force I joined in 1921, the force my father joined in 1898, the force my grandfather joined in 1867, has changed too much to include the likes of me.”
Pat Cohan watched Morton hem and haw. The situation, pleasing as it may have been to the deputy chief’s sheeny soul, had apparently taken him by surprise. “What makes you think we believe Stanley Moodrow?” he’d finally asked.
“I think you believe him, boyo, because you stepped all over my authority. Because you put the heel of your shoe on my head and ground me into the sidewalk like you were disposing of a cigarette butt.”
“Aren’t you being overly dramatic, Pat?” Morton’s head had wobbled on his skinny neck as he denied Cohan’s statement. “Believing Moodrow has nothing to do with the situation. In our best judgment, he has enough information, be it true or false, to make the Department very uncomfortable. What I’m trying to say is you don’t have to protect your pension by retiring.”
The little bastard may have been surprised, but it’d hadn’t taken more than a few seconds to figure it out. If he, Pat Cohan, was dismissed from the force as the result of a departmental investigation, his pension would fly out the window like an escaped canary. If, on the other hand, he retired before the investigation, they’d have to get a court conviction to take his money away.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there, Milton. I’ve handed in my papers and you’ve accepted them. The only thing left is for me to warn you about Stanley Moodrow, which I intend to do whether you’ve got the time or not.”
Morton, resigned, had puffed out a little sigh, then settled back in his chair. “Go ahead, Pat. Tell me.”
“Moodrow’s a vicious dog. He deliberately seduced my daughter, then left her like you’d leave a prostitute on the street. He stalked her, waited until she was vulnerable, then took her innocence. I know this to be true because my daughter told me. When I confronted Stanley Moodrow, he invited me to come out behind the house and settle matters. When I refused, he swore he’d get even some other way. Sal Patero’s statement was forced, Milton. It’ll never stand up in court.”
“Just a minute, Pat. We’re under the impression that you pulled Sal Patero out of the Seventh Precinct before he, shall we say, confessed. By the way, I don’t actually know what Patero said. The only one who’s seen this so-called confession is a sergeant named Epstein. I did call Patero into the office, but he refused to talk to me. I might add that Lieutenant Patero seemed fit as a fiddle. There wasn’t a mark on him.”
“You don’t have to leave bruises to get a confession, Milton. I realize you never had much street experience, but you ought to know that much. A cocked thirty-eight will do just fine.”
But that’d been that. There was nothing more to be said. He’d left and come home to Bayside. To his house and his wife and his daughter. And to the money, of course. He’d done quite well over the years. That had to count for something in a man’s life. He’d taken care of his family and put enough away for a comfortable old age. It had to count for something.
He was making himself a cup of tea when the front door opened. Quickly, while Kate was shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her galoshes, he added a shot of Bushmill’s to the tea, then hid the bottle in a cabinet beneath the sink.
“That you, Kate?”
“Yes, Daddy, it’s me.” Kate bounced into the room, smiling.
“Yer a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. A sight for sore eyes.” She’d always had that bounce. As far back as he could remember. A tomboy to her bones. “Kate, do ya remember the time I had to pull you out of the oak in the back yard?”
“Yes, Daddy. How can I forget when you remind me at least once a week?”
Pat Cohan ignored the comment. He’d begun knocking down shots the minute he’d walked through the door. Not that he was falling-down drunk or anything close to it. No, he was on the kind of jag that glues you to the barstool. That makes your thoughts spin through your mind until you have to reach out for an anchor. Or another shot, which is the same thing.
“You couldn’t have been more than ten years old.”
“I was eleven. And if you hadn’t panicked, I’d have gotten down by myself.” She walked over to the stove, lit the right front burner with a match, then hefted the teapot. “Is the water hot?”
“Almost. I just poured meself a cup.” He raised the cup to his mouth, sipped a little, spilled more. “B’Jesus,” he muttered. “Now I’m after foulin’ meself.”
“Daddy, have you been drinking? It’s only three o’clock.”
“I’m sober as a judge.”
“Then why are you putting on that Irish accent? You only do that when you’ve been drinking.”
“Well, I may have had a drop, darlin’. It’s in the way of a celebration.”
Kate turned back to him, smiling. “That’s swell, Daddy. What’s the event?”
“I’ve retired from the New York Police Department. Did it this afternoon. Just walked in and handed my papers over to the sheeny in charge …”
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