Cop Job

by Chris Knopf

  “Sure,” he said. “Mrs. Battiston from the bank.”

  He was referring to her former job as a personal banker, working for former husband Roy Battiston before he’d transitioned to a minimum-security cell in Upstate New York.

  “I knew your father-in-law,” she said. “From the bank. I was sorry to see him go.”

  “He had a good life,” he said, as if still arguing the appropriateness of the old man’s death. “If you don’t mind,” he added, holding up the two drinks.

  We didn’t. He left and we drifted into the general crowd, cleaving to each other and searching discreetly for a safe social harbor. Instead we ran into Oksana Quan from the prosecutor’s office. She displayed her usual tightly wrapped beauty, somewhat loosened by a spectral white dress that fluttered haphazardly in the freshening sea breeze. I noticed the white nail polish when she extended her hand to Amanda.

  “I remember you from the Milhouser case,” said Oksana. “You sat in the back.”

  She meant the case her boss had hoped would get me a life sentence in a prison far more secure than Roy Battiston’s. I thought I should look around for other legal people at the party so we could start a discussion group on my encounters with criminal prosecution.

  “I remember you, too,” said Amanda, the exact meaning of which was indecipherable to me but obviously understood by the two of them.

  “Did you bring Edith along?” I asked Oksana.

  “I don’t bring Mrs. Madison anywhere. She brings me.”

  “I didn’t know this was a political event,” I said. “I thought they were raising money to neuter cats or something.”

  “Cats and dogs,” said Oksana.

  “Maybe we could throw in politicians,” I said.

  “I’ll pass that along to Edith,” said Oksana.

  “Still doesn’t explain what she’s doing here,” I said.

  Oksana looked over our heads and scanned the crowd.

  “Oh, the wealthiest fund-raising freaks on the East End. Oh, you think they might want to contribute to the election of the Suffolk County district attorney some day? Oh, gee, I don’t know.”

  “I think you’ve got your answer,” said Amanda.

  “Maybe Edith would like me better if I pitched in a couple hundred bucks,” I said.

  “Consider it already returned,” said Oksana.

  I wanted to ask her if she had any information that would help our snooping around, but I couldn’t let her know I’d spilled a highly confidential investigation to my girlfriend.

  “How’d you get in to the prosecution business, anyway?” I asked her, with my usual gift for small talk.

  She looked at me like I’d just asked her bra size, but managed to force out, “I interned in the city after graduating from law school. One thing led to another.”

  She took a sip from her drink, something that looked suspiciously like Diet Coke, and looked around again, this time to spot someone who could help her escape.

  “Where’d you go to college?” I asked, on a roll.

  “An art school,” she said. “You wouldn’t know it.”

  “Try me,” I said. “My daughter went to art school.”

  Her attention suddenly swung back to my face, her eyes slightly wider despite a new furrow in her brow.

  “Allison Acquillo?” she said. “Oh, God, I should have realized. How many Acquillos would the world allow?”

  “You went to RISD?” I asked, actually somewhat pleased. It almost made Oksana seem like a standard human being to have shared a campus with my all-too-unstandard daughter.

  “I did,” she said. “And yes, it’s not a conventional pathway to law school. But I decided I had to make a living.”

  “Allison makes a rather nice living,” said Amanda, lightly, though I detected the slightest change in tone, an intimation of where things might go if we continued traveling this conversational path.

  “I’m not surprised. We all wished we had her talent,” said Oksana, using the moment to slip away as if her dress had finally been scooped up by the wind.

  Amanda held her wine in the air, deciding between taking a sip, or tossing it at Oksana, as she walked across the grass. I clinked it to encourage the former.

  “Let’s keep moving,” I said. “I could use the exercise.”

  I took her hand and we did a meandering turn through the milling humanity, around clumps of intimate conversations, fortifying at the round, munchie-laden tables and our new favorite bar. Thus occupied, we avoided further contact with other people until I saw Lionel again, speaking with a woman I thought was probably his wife, Lacey.

  Again, Amanda did her bit by breaking the ice.

  “Hello, Lacey,” she said. “Lovely event. So good of you to support such an important cause.”

  Lacey looked pleased, though slightly confused, trying to place Amanda within her cohort of philanthropists and the merely aspiring.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose these things come naturally to me. Lionel is so supportive.”

  I wanted to ask Lionel if proper neutering started in the home, but for once thought better of it.

  Amanda complimented Lacey on the gush of summer flowers lining a nearby bed and asked if she wouldn’t mind identifying the species. When the women were out of earshot, I asked Lionel, “Any luck on the Alfie Aldergreen thing?”

  He stiffened, though his eyes looked amused.

  “You get to bug Sullivan about that one,” he said.

  “But you have thoughts on the matter.”

  “None that I’d share with you.”

  “You want to hear mine?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Alfie was crazy, but observant. Didn’t have much else to do but watch what was going on. I think he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

  “Yeah, Southampton Village is a real criminal hotbed. Just the other day I saw a Chihuahua pee on a flower box.”

  I couldn’t reveal I knew Alfie was an informant, which hampered the discussion.

  “Did you get an ID on that pooch? I hear Edith Madison is here. She loves to prosecute.”

  “I’ll never know how she fucked up Milhouser,” said Veckstrom.

  He meant the murder case against me.

  “The killer confessed. That generally rises to a higher level of importance than ‘I hate that sonofabitch Acquillo.’ ”

  “I don’t hate you, Sam. Any more than I hate the bugs we have to spray in the garden every spring.”

  “I thought I was the only Buddhist in town.”

  “Speaking of legal issues, you can tell Swaitkowski to keep her nose out of my investigations,” he said. “I’m not a sucker for a short skirt like Sullivan and the captain.”

  “You told me Alfie was Sullivan’s.”

  “Joey Wentworth’s parents are wondering why she wants to talk to them. I am, too. If she shows up at their door, they’re instructed to call the police.”

  “You’re the police.”

  “I’d be happy to bust her for obstruction. It’s long overdue.”

  I would have agreed with him, but there was no sense piling on.

  “I thought you had a law degree,” I said. “No honor among thieves?”

  “I’d rather join al-Qaeda than work as a defense attorney.”

  “So why not be a prosecutor yourself? You could put innocent people in jail. Help undermine zoning regulations so rich fucks could ruin the beaches. There’s plenty of that kind of work out here.”

  I’d call his expression blank if I’d ever seen him make any other kind of expression. To me, he was always blank.

  “I think that falls in the category of none of your fucking business,” he said, fairly enough.

  “Noted,” I said, saluting with my vodka.

  “I’m going to see what Lacey is up to. I’m sure there are other people here for you to annoy,” he said, leaving me on my own, exposed to the predations of the social set. Luckily Amanda got there first.

  �
�How’s Lionel?” she asked.

  “He said he doesn’t hate me.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I’ll just hate him twice as much to make up for it.”

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked.

  “He suspects Jackie Swaitkowski of interfering with an official police investigation.”

  “That’s shocking.”

  We made one more stroll around the event, talked to a few people we actually enjoyed talking to, drained off more of the hosts’ free booze, and eventually grew intolerably weary of the whole thing.

  “I’m ready,” said Amanda.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  When we reached the valet stand I was surprised to see Lacey there, sending people off. I told her as much.

  “My father’s doing. He always said farewells were just as important as hellos. It’s amazing how that parent stuff sticks in your head.”

  My father always said a pain in the ass was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, but I didn’t share that with her.

  “Thanks again, Lacey,” said Amanda. “Your home is exquisite and the event just so.”

  That moved Lacey to surprise her with an enthusiastic hug. Amanda did her best to return the gesture, guarded of her personal space though she was.

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Lionel?” Lacey asked, still holding Amanda with both hands.

  “A bit.”

  “You know he’s a good man,” said Lacey.

  “Why else would he be with you?” said Amanda, clearly confused. She wasn’t the only one.

  “So we have your support,” said Lacey, then realizing Amanda hadn’t immediately reacted, said, “The election. For district attorney. We’re announcing tomorrow. You know Lionel’s the right man at the right time with the right vision for Suffolk County.”

  “I’d say there’s even more to him than that, Lacey,” said Amanda.

  We didn’t speak much on the way back to Oak Point. I concentrated on driving and Amanda pretended to sleep. Eddie was on duty when we got there and did a fine job herding us across the lawn to the Adirondack chairs, after we’d paused at the cottage for pillows, blankets, Big Dog biscuits, and two cups of coffee to guard against another night’s sleep on the grass.

  The air was clear and warm, and calm, in contrast to the blustery conditions over on the ocean. Once settled in, I reached over and took Amanda’s hand.

  “Do you think he can win?” she asked.

  “He’s got the money.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s possible for a woman to buy her husband a political office. Even on the county level.”

  I didn’t say anything, which was better than disappointing her with the truth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next day I briefed Jackie on our time at the Veckstrom fund-raiser, in particular the conversation with Lionel and his feelings about her talking to Joey Wentworth’s parents.

  “I can talk to any goddamned person I want,” she said.

  “You can. And he can twist any goddamned thing you do into obstruction of justice. A disbarrable offense.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Let’s switch. Let me take Veckstrom’s CIs. There’s not much he can do to me. You take Sullivan.”

  “What’s going on with him?” she asked. “He’s acting weird.”

  “I don’t know. But it’s not good.”

  “Is that an expression of concern for another human being? Are you sure you’re Sam Acquillo?”

  “How do I find Wentworth’s parents?”

  She told me, but then said, “I wasn’t going there next. I got a lead on one of Joey’s customers. Or more like a link in the supply chain. Mustafa Karadeniz. Harry knows him from the logistics trade. Turk. Owns Manny’s Despatch out of Riverhead.”

  “Manny’s?” I asked.

  “Before I joined Burton’s practice I helped him with an easement at his warehouse. It wasn’t until I met Harry that I learned why the place was always half-empty. Keeps just enough stuff to maintain the front.”

  “What did he want to ease?”

  “The driveway behind his warehouse was owned by a Jamaican bar and grill. We lost the case, but Mustafa was unmoved. A few weeks later the health department found the bar’s kitchen infested with rats. Two weeks after that Mustafa bought the bar, tore it down, and shipped it to the dump, rats and all.”

  “Seems like a good place to start,” I said.

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  “Right.”

  ON THE way to Riverhead, I stopped in the Village to charge my mug with French Vanilla from the coffee shop on the corner. The owner had devised a devilishly complex service layout, which mattered little off-season. In the summer the place was crammed with people from Manhattan, most of whom seemed invigorated by the challenge of competing for their coffee and croissants.

  As a regular, I had a leg up. When the Guatemalan lady behind the counter saw me, she poured my usual and handed it over. This raised a lot of suspicion in the woman standing next to me, who rightly assumed I was trading on inside information.

  “I’ve been standing here a long time,” she said.

  “Not as long as me,” I said.

  “You know the owner, you’re taken care of. It’s ever thus.”

  “Never met the guy.”

  “It’s not what you know. It’s who you know,” she said, not listening.

  “Envy destroys happiness,” I told her, before muscling my way back through the crowd, and after grabbing a Times, settling onto a park bench to complete the ritual.

  I was almost finished with the paper when I saw a headline in the City Section, “Many Questions in Death of Disabled Vet.” The byline was Roger Angstrom, the reporter who’d written a long piece on Jackie after she’d saved one of her knuckle-headed clients in a dramatic enough way to attract the media.

  The article laid out the facts pretty much as we knew them, leaving out the dead snitches. Predictably, the quotes from vacationers focused on such a cruel act taking place at the height of an idyllic Hamptons summer.

  And at these rents, was the unspoken thought.

  There was no mention of Jackie Swaitkowski, so he’d honored his source, though he’d managed to wrangle a quote from Ross Semple.

  “The perpetrators of this heinous crime should be on notice. To us, a troubled man like Alfie Aldergreen is no different from the richest guy in the biggest house on the ocean. We won’t give up until justice is served.”

  Despite the pat sentiment, I knew he meant every word.

  RIVERHEAD IS a tough little town stuck in the crotch of the twin forks of Long Island. It was most notable these days for the strip development arcing over its northern territories. Mustafa’s place was close to the original urban center, a vestige of small town America unmarred by the opulence of its Hamptons neighbors to the east.

  The building was made of stone, unthinkable today with instant metal buildings and vanishing craftsmanship. I pulled into an empty parking lot, trying to sense the reggae music and oceans of Red Stripe that once flowed through the neighborhood.

  I hadn’t called ahead. Cops don’t call ahead. Invading armies don’t call ahead. It’s never a good idea to call ahead if you don’t want people to know you’re coming.

  The only downside is the quarry might not be there when you show up. This time I got lucky.

  I rang the buzzer and Mustafa swung aside the giant sliding door. I assumed it was Mustafa, looking as he did like a dignified Turk confronted by an unannounced visitor.

  He wore a pale white silk suit nicely offset by a green silk T-shirt. His hair was dyed a shade of black ill-suited to his broad, doughy face.

  “What do you want?” he asked, reasonably enough.

  “If you’re Mustafa Karadeniz, I want to chat.”

  “I don’t chat,” he said, and started to slide the door back into place. I caught it with my foot.

  “I just want a
conversation. It could save you a lot of trouble down the road.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  He had the sort of gentle accent many foreign speakers acquired after long years in the United States. It was a type I could never distinguish between Spanish or Persian, German or Albanian, though I always liked the way it sounded.

  “Legal trouble,” I said. “It’s headed your way. You help me, I help you.”

  He let the tension off the door, but didn’t open it all the way.

  “Who are you?”

  “A guy was killed in Southampton the other day. He might have known people in a business you might know something about. Which means the cops’ll come knocking on your door, sooner than later. The dead guy was a friend of mine. That’s my only interest. I’m not looking at you. I just want a little information.”

  “What can you do for me?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s better if we’re friends.”

  He looked at me more closely, in an unexpected way.

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  That surprised me, which must have shown, because it made him smile.

  “Sam Acquillo,” he said. “I got a friend of my own who wants me to kill you. Nice of you to make it so easy.”

  Then he reached into his sport coat.

  I’D LIVED long enough and done enough to have forgotten a lot more than I remembered. So I excuse myself for not immediately recalling who out there might want me dead.

  At least not off the top of my head. If I’d had time to ponder things, I might have come up with a few candidates. But the analytical part of my brain was temporarily off-line while the survival instincts were busy dealing with the matter at hand.

  I used my right fist to sock him in the throat. This is a really painful and frightening way to be socked, and if the socker isn’t careful, he can easily crush the larynx and kill the guy.

  Mustafa dropped to his knees, grabbed at his throat, and tried to get air flowing back through his lungs. I walked behind him, grabbed a headful of hair, stuck my knee in his back, and shoved him face down into the macadam parking lot. I sat on his back and frisked him, reaching every hiding place but the front waistline of his pants, an approach I didn’t think Mustafa was stupid enough to employ.