“Say, Jake,” Moodrow called. “Do you want me to go through the deal about how you’re surrounded? About how there’s a hundred cops out here? About how they’ve got submachine guns and shotguns and tear gas?”
“Don’t bother. I could’a run when my old lady called, but I didn’t. What I want is that you should try to take me. I don’t care how many cops ya got out there, ya could only come through that door one at a time. Ya listenin’, flatfoot? I don’t care if ya got a fuckin’ army out there. Ya gotta come through one at a time.”
Moodrow saw the door behind Freddy Stone open wide. A dozen uniformed cops poured through. Half of them took up stations near the stairs. The other half ran past him to the far end of the hall. Moodrow closed his eyes as they came abreast of Jake Leibowitz’s door.
“Stanley. Come over here.”
Moodrow looked up to find Allen Epstein beckoning to him. “Whatta ya want, Sarge?” He wasn’t about to cross that doorway.
“C’mere, for Christ’s sake.”
Jake Leibowitz chose that moment to send another volley through the door. Moodrow watched Epstein’s eyes squeeze shut. The uniforms in the hallway dropped to one knee and aimed their service revolvers in his direction. As if, in the absence of a preferred target, they’d decided to shoot him. It wasn’t until Captain McElroy appeared in the doorway that he was sure they wouldn’t open fire.
“Any bodies out there?” Jake called.
“Not yet,” Moodrow answered. “But I’m glad to see you’re interested.”
McElroy tiptoed up to the doorway. “Can you keep him talking?” he whispered. “Keep him distracted? We need about fifteen minutes to evacuate the floor and set up on the rooftops.”
“I’m not gonna stay here another fifteen seconds unless you get these assholes to point their weapons at the floor.”
McElroy looked down the hallway as if seeing it for the first time. “Whatta you plan to do,” he roared, “shoot me? Lower your weapons.”
The cops complied instantly, their fear of authority considerably greater than their fear of Jake Leibowitz. Jake, on the other hand, responded by firing several shots through the door. McElroy didn’t even blink. He’d come up in the days when social workers and bleeding-heart liberals had about as much influence in city politics as the toilet bowls in Tammany Hall. When Hell’s Kitchen was still called the Tenth Ward and breaking heads was the answer to every problem.
“Fifteen minutes,” McElroy repeated. “I’m not gonna let this drag out. I want Leibowitz before the reporters show up.”
“Look, captain, I think if we let him sit for a while, he’ll come out of there. I guarantee he can cover the roofs from inside. If you put an army of cops up there …”
“Shut up, Moodrow.” McElroy jammed his fists into his hips. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit to last a lifetime. I’m ordering you to submit. Do you understand what I’m saying? You are not the fucking commissioner. You do not set policy in my precinct. You’re a piece-of-crap detective, third grade. A monkey in a suit. When I play my accordion, the monkey always dances. Always.”
“I understand.” There wasn’t anything else Moodrow could say. Jake Leibowitz had fifteen minutes and that was that. “Do you bring any tools with you?”
“What?” McElroy’s posture hadn’t changed. He was still livid.
“I could use a four-pound hammer. To hold his attention while you get ready to kill him.”
Jake Leibowitz, peering through his bathroom window, couldn’t help but smile. The six-story buildings making up the Vladeck Houses were joined to each other in rows. Only, instead of laying the buildings end-to-end, the architect had connected the buildings at forty-five degree angles, giving the project a weird, saw-toothed appearance. It was stupid, really, because the arrangement left half the windows in permanent shadow. Maybe the builder was trying to save money. Just the way he’d saved money by letting one stairwell serve an entire line of roofs.
Whatever the reason, that last part was good for Jake Leibowitz and he knew it. The small brick tower that housed the stairwell would have provided excellent cover if it hadn’t been more than eighty feet away from the roof that overlooked his apartment. Not that it would actually be impossible to shoot from behind the stairwell, but the angle was wrong. Even a sharpshooter with a telescopic sight wouldn’t be able to cover more than a tiny part of Jake’s window.
“They gotta come to me,” Jake laughed. “They gotta.”
And they did. Picking their way along the tar-covered roofs as if they were tiptoeing over hot coals. God, but it was stupid. Big, blue-uniformed men carrying Thompsons and shotguns and rifles. Dancing like ballerinas. Wishing they were anywhere but where they were.
Jake raised Little Richard and aimed carefully. The army-issue Colt.45 was a notoriously inaccurate weapon, especially when fired rapidly. It weighed a ton and kicked like a mule. What he was going to get, he knew, was one decent shot. The rest of the clip, which he fully intended to empty, was more likely to kill pigeons than cops.
Boom! Boom!
It took Jake a moment to realize that something was wrong. That there’d been two reports when he’d only pressed the trigger once. He looked at the gun, then out across the roofs. Thinking maybe one of the cops was shooting back. What he saw drove that second explosion right out of his mind. Two uniformed cops were dragging the limp body of a third cop. They were heading for the stairwell as fast as they could go, which is not to say they were moving as fast as their unburdened buddies. The rest of the cops were running.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“What the fuck is goin’ on here?”
Then he knew what it was. They were coming through the front door.
Jake flew out of the bathroom. He began firing through the door as soon as he could see it and continued firing until the clip was empty. Then he leaped behind his makeshift barricade, expecting some kind of volley in return. But there was nothing. Just the echo of dying gunfire and the calm voice of the cop in the hallway.
“You back, Jake? I was gettin’ lonely out here with no one to talk to. That’s why I decided to knock on the door. You know, to get your attention.”
Jake peered over the back of the couch. The door was still in one piece. The lock had broken out-that’s most likely where the cops had aimed-but the bolt a foot above the knob was still intact and the bed slats hadn’t budged an inch.
“Jesus, that was close,” Jake muttered.
He replaced the empty clip, then walked over to the window and pushed one of the mattresses a few inches to the side. The roof directly across from the window was empty. A few cops were crouched behind the stairwell tower eighty feet away. He punched out the glass and aimed Little Richard in their general direction. They weren’t giving him much target, but if he waited long enough …
Boom! Boom!
“For Christ’s sake, stop doin’ that.” Jake fired through the door again. Just a single shot, this time. He didn’t want to run out of ammo before the cops made their charge.
“What do you think, Jake? You think I’m standing in front of this door? You’re doin’ a nice job on the wall out here, but you’re not doin’ shit to me.”
“Yeah? Well, sooner or later, somebody’s gotta come through that door. If your balls are as big as your mouth, maybe you’ll be leadin’ the parade.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it, why don’t you just unlock the damn thing and get it over with? This hammer’s gettin’ heavy.”
Jake took a quick look out the window. There were more cops out there, now, but they weren’t moving toward his building. They were hanging their heads while some big-shot officer chewed them out. He laid Little Richard on the windowsill and carefully sighted down the barrel.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Somewhere along the line, Jake knew, he must have pulled the trigger. Because he could see smoke curling from the business end of the.45. Only, the cops on the roof were still talking. Even as he watched, one of t
hem leveled his rifle and fired a shot. The bullet thumped into the mattress above Jake’s head.
Jake turned back to the door. The deadbolt was definitely bent, now. Once it let go, the bed slats would have to take the heat. They wouldn’t last long.
“You still in there?”
“Yeah,” Jake shouted. “Me and my aunt. She’s sittin’ right in front of the door.”
“That’s funny, your mama told me your aunt was in the hospital. She told me the apartment was empty.”
“Mama’s got a big mouth. What else did she tell ya?” Jake wasn’t exactly in the mood for conversation, but on the other hand, he didn’t want the cop pounding on the door, either. Yeah, he was gonna die-that much was obvious-but there was no sense in rushing it.
“She told me your father was a gangster.”
“Bullshit, Mama never talks about him. Never.”
“Whatta ya think, I’m making this up? Your father was a gangster. They found him floating in the river. Which is exactly what the mob’ll do to you, if they ever get their hands on you. Of course, that’s not likely to happen, considering the only way you’re gonna get out of here alive is to surrender and you’re much too tough to do anything like that.”
“It’s too late. I nailed one of the cops on the roof. From what I could see, the scumbag wasn’t movin’.”
“Look, Jake, the thing is I told your mother if you gave yourself up, I’d protect you. She wants to see you alive. That’s why she told me where you were.”
“How many cops ya got out there? Fifty? A hundred? I never got much education, but I ain’t so stupid I think a hundred cops are here to keep me alive.”
Boom!
“Hey, whatta ya doin’? I’m talkin’, ain’t I?”
“What’d I tell you, Jake? Didn’t I say I promised your mother? Now you’re making me out a liar and I don’t like it. I gave my word and I don’t welsh. Why don’t you open the door? Why don’t you toss the gun and come on out?”
Jake shook his head slowly. He looked down at Little Richard. Thinking about how he should just put the gun in his mouth and get it over with.
“What’s ya name, cop?”
“Moodrow. Detective Stanley Moodrow.”
“Stanley? What kinda pansy name is Stanley?”
“You know how it is, Jake. You don’t get to pick your name. Just like you don’t get to pick your parents. Some things in life you gotta learn to overcome.”
“Like the electric chair? How do ya overcome the hot seat?”
“With a lawyer, Jake, like everybody else. We made almost four hundred arrests for murder last year. Four hundred arrests, but how many executions? Two? Three? I can hear the social worker testifying. Giving the judge an earful about how your father corrupted you and your mother’s crazy and you never caught a break in your life.”
Suddenly, Jake got an idea. An idea that might keep him alive for a few more hours.
“A few hours ain’t a long time,” he muttered. “Unless ya lookin’ at a few minutes.”
“I can’t hear you, Jake? If you’re talking to me, I can’t hear a word you’re sayin’.”
“Ya want me to surrender, Stanley?”
“I wouldn’t complain.”
“Then get me a lawyer. Before I come out. Get me a lawyer named Irving Blumstein. He’s got an office on Broadway, near the courthouse. Ya put him out in that hall, where he can see what’s happening, and I’ll give myself up.”
Silence. Dead silence. Which was about what Jake expected. Well, let them take their time. Let ’em take all the time in the world. He wasn’t going anywhere.
When the cops on the rooftop opened fire, it sounded, as Moodrow had predicted, like WWIII had broken out. They opened up with submachine guns, shotguns and rifles. Thirty of them, firing as rapidly as possible. They concentrated their fire on the covered living-room windows, blowing the mattresses out with the first volley. Filling the room with deadly, dancing lead.
Stanley Moodrow stood, unflinching, through the two-minute volley, his eyes fixed to those of Captain John McElroy. McElroy, for his part, returned Moodrow’s stare. The two of them might have been alone in the hallway. Despite the presence of twenty crouching patrolmen, all of whom had their eyes tightly closed.
The silence, when it came, was worse than the shooting. Dead silence was the phrase that popped into Moodrow’s mind.
“Detective,” McElroy finally said. “Take the door down.”
Moodrow lowered the four-pound hammer to the floor. He dropped it gently, avoiding any sound, then picked up a sixteen-pound, long-handled sledge and drove it into the door. The crash was obscenely loud, a clear violation of the collective silence. As if a flasher had wandered into a crowd of mourners gathered around an open grave.
It wasn’t until the door gave way, suddenly flying open to smash against the inner wall, that Moodrow considered the possibility that Jake Leibowitz was alive and waiting. He dropped the sledgehammer, drew his weapon, then glanced up at McElroy.
“You got anything special in mind?” he asked.
McElroy didn’t bother to respond. He stepped into the doorway, leaving Moodrow no choice except to follow.
They found Jake Leibowitz’s body in a pool of blood and glass. He was lying face-down, the dozen wounds on his back clearly entrance wounds. The shotguns had done their job on the barricaded windows, but it was the rifles and the Thompsons that’d killed Jake Leibowitz. The single shotgun wound on his body hadn’t been fatal, although it must have been extremely painful. The pellets had ripped into the back of his head, tearing through his scalp and flipping it over his face.
Captain John McElroy stared down at Jake Leibowitz’s bloody skull for a moment, a thin smile pulling at his lips, then turned to face the young detective standing next to him.
“Looks like they started the autopsy without us,” he said.
Thirty-five
January 29
“I chickened out, Greta,” Moodrow explained. “I chickened out twice. There’s no other way to look at it. When I left you and got in that car, I was determined to arrest Jake Leibowitz by myself. I wanted to drag him into the Seventh and toss him to the captain. Jake was gonna be my trophy. Proof that I was right all along. Only, I kept thinking about what might happen if he got past me. I mean he killed four men that we know about. I couldn’t take a chance, so I called in the troops. If I’d been there alone, I think I might’ve talked him out.”
He watched Greta reach into the oven and remove two sliced bagels. She dropped them onto a plate, then licked her fingers.
“Hot,” she said without turning around.
“You should use a fork.”
“One more thing to wash.” She unwrapped a bar of Philadelphia Cream Cheese and began to spread it over the bagels.
Moodrow watched her for another moment. He’d been postponing this talk for the last five days. Knowing it had to take place, despite his preoccupation with Kate and the swirl of events following her father’s suicide.
He’d come home that night to find a note: Gone to Bayside. Back this evening. Much love. The only problem was that “this evening” had already come and gone. Between a dead Jake Leibowitz, a dead cop named Strauss, more than five hundred rounds of police fire and fifty reports to be filed by fifty patrolmen, Moodrow, the only detective on the scene, hadn’t left the 7th Precinct until well after midnight.
What he’d assumed was that Kate had decided to spend the night in Bayside. The only question was whether she’d somehow fallen back under her father’s spell. But that hadn’t seemed possible. Not even to a thoroughly shell-shocked Stanley Moodrow. No, most likely Kate had called a half-dozen times and gotten no answer. Maybe she’d even called Greta. There’d been no way of knowing, because it was nearly one o’clock and he couldn’t make it into an emergency no matter how many scenarios he concocted.
He’d awakened the next morning to find Pat Cohan on the radio, on television, on the front page of every newspaper in N
ew York City. The murder-suicide had transformed Jake Leibowitz and the rooftop shootout from a banner headline to an item on page fifteen.
The first phone call had come at ten o’clock in the morning: “John Hughes, from the Journal-American. You were Kate Cohan’s fiance. Could you …?”
Could you? Would you? Do you? It’d gone on for days. Despite his muttered, “No comment.” Despite hanging up again and again and again. It was still going on, though the volume of calls had slowed now that the funeral was over.
The sad part was that he’d answered every call, each time hoping to hear Kate’s voice. His own calls out to Bayside had been fielded by any number of unidentified friends and relatives. Most had been firm, but polite. A few had called him a bastard. One, a woman, had fairly hissed at him.
“Haven’t you done enoughhhhhhhhhh?”
Desperate, he’d driven out to St. John’s Cemetery in Flushing and watched the funeral procession pass through the cemetery gates. He’d seen Kate in the back of the limousine following the casket, a small veiled figure encircled by men in black overcoats. Were they relatives or cops? And where were the women? The helpful aunts? The trusted friends?
The questions were making him crazy. He’d sought Greta’s advice, then Allen Epstein’s. Both had delivered the same message: give her time to sort it out. Time was the only cure.
He should, he knew later, have taken their advice, because when he’d finally driven out to Bayside, the trip had made him even crazier. Kate’s Uncle Bill, her mother’s brother, had answered the door. An elderly man, he’d looked embarrassed at first. Then he’d invited Moodrow inside.
“She’s not here, lad,” he’d said. “You can look if you want.”
Moodrow, a cop to his bones, had taken the old man up on the offer, wandering from room to room. He’d found a lot of empty space and a single locked door. It led, he knew, to Rose Cohan’s bedroom.
“It hasn’t been cleaned,” Bill Brannigan had said apologetically. “It’ll have to be cleaned soon, I suppose. If we’re to put the house on the market.”
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