The Sandler Inquiry

by Noel Hynd

  Shassad looked at the front and side profiles of the man named Sholavsky. Then his eyes skipped to the text below.

  Sholavsky, it read, was Russian by birth. Born in Minsk a few years after the First World War. A dedicated Communist, he'd served in the Red Army through the forties, distinguishing himself as an artillery captain in Germany.

  After the war, Sholavsky had been promoted, a lateral promotion as opposed to an upward one within the army. He'd been assigned to the KGB, whereupon he'd been assigned to Soviet Consulates in Oslo and Paris, in the guise of a clerk.

  "See the fine print at the bottom?" asked Hearn.

  "It says that Sholavsky died of illness in Turkey in 1965. And evidently someone somewhere believes that because these prints were among those of the dead."

  "But they gave them to us anyway?" asked Shassad flatly, not yet realizing the proper implications.

  "Yeah," said Hearn.

  "They said,

  "Hey, you idiots, cut the clowning. Stop wasting our time with old prints. Cut the shit. "And just to show us that we'd taken the wrong print off the mirror, they gave me these. The print boys wanted to show us how wrong we were" Shassad eyed his partner coldly.

  "But we're not wrong, are we?" he said.

  Hearn reached into his pocket.

  "Here are the pictures we took" he said.

  "I picked them up at forensics on my way uptown" Hearn laid out the prints of Jacobus through the telephoto police lens. Side view next to side view, full frontal next to full frontal.

  The picture of Jacobus next to the deceased KGB agent, Sholavsky.

  Jacobus was ten pounds heavier, balder, and wore more lines around the eyes. Otherwise, the conclusion was clear.

  "It's the same man" said Shassad.

  "The same man."

  Hearn and Shassad exchanged long stares. They were both exhilarated and perplexed by their discovery. Yet they were simultaneously put off by it, too. What were they doing? After all, they were New York City homicide detectives, not counterespionage agents.

  They were investigating a murder on a sidewalk, not a spy ring.

  And yet." And yet…

  One aspect of the case, formerly so inexplicable, now made sudden, brutal sense. The two men on Seventy-third Street, the pair who'd slain Ryder. Shassad had always thought they were professionals. But his theory had made no sense. What business did a janitor have dealing with trained killers and alerting them when to strike a designated victim? A janitor had no such business. But an alien agent? A man long since thought to be dead, masquerading for years as a night custodian? Professional assassins fit perfectly to a man like that. ?

  After several moments of pause, Hearn spoke.

  "Aram, look he said.

  "We've got to make a decision. This doesn't look like our turf.

  We could wrap this up as is and dump it on the Feds. Matching fingerprints, pictures, the corpse, everything. We'd never see it again, which might suit us fine."

  "Yeah'" said Shassad, hesitantly, thoughtfully.

  "You don't like that, do you?"

  "Hell," said Shassad.

  "What do we get paid to do? Solve murders, right? We run with it. I don't give a flying fuck where it takes us."

  Hearn's face radiated with a smile.

  "I knew you'd see it my way," he intoned.

  "Have some tea!" said Shassad. He held up the cardboard cup as if to throw it at Hearn.

  "Come on. Let's do some digging" And dig they did, assisted by the two other teams, McGowan and Duchecki, Grimaldi and Blocker. Within two days, Shassad and Hearn were in possession of new and perplexing details which contributed to the background of the Ryder murder case.

  The developments were disjointed and obviously unconnected to Ryder himself.

  Yet somewhere there was a covert connection. Shassad wanted it.

  They all wanted it. Was it through Daniels? Shassad continued to work on the 'wrong man" theory, postulating that the victim had no link to the crime except bad luck. The most unorthodox murder case he'd ever encountered, Shassad admitted to himself in his most private thoughts.

  And, unorthodox? How about Rota Films?

  The stated business of the company was the import and export of films; commercial American films purchased for viewing abroad, and documentary films about North America shot by Rota employees. Many Rota films were clearly nonpolitical studies of wildlife and geology. All of their original films were returned in sealed cans to Romania for developing and processing.

  Such activities appeared innocuous enough on the surface. What bothered Aram Shassad about Rota films was what was left unsaid, the unseen factors lurking beneath the surface.

  Little things, for example. Like the full-time armed guards who protected their Varick Street offices against 'burglaries" around the clock. Or like the bank their checks cleared through the same bank that Jacobus used.

  Then there were the big things.

  Rota, for example, owned no modern film equipment. They employed no professional camera operators. They had not purchased an American film for Romanian distribution since 1973. They had no apparent income and should have been losing inordinate sums of money for the past several years. Yet they were unquestionably solvent, maintaining two entire floors of office and 'production' space in a sturdy-and recently reenforced-warehouse at the base of Varick Street, in the bowels of Manhattan.

  And then there was the factor that piqued Shassad the most. Despite the fact that Rota produced few films and purchased fewer, they were a hornets' nest of activity when it came to export. Exposed films to be developed were constantly being shipped back to Europe. And therein lay an apparent sweetheart deal with the Romanian government.

  So that the sealed film cans would not be 'accidentally" opened and exposed, Rota Films managed to send their products home via the diplomatic pouches, therefore at no time under the scrutiny of any Customs service. The pouches, and the sealed film cans therein, flew a triangular route between New York, Washington, and Bucharest. Then, once arrived on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, Rota products would drift into oblivion.

  Shassad called a meeting of all five detectives assigned to the Ryder case for ten A.M. on a Monday. Five weeks had passed since the murder of Ryder. He reviewed all information previously assembled and anything new any detective had to offer.

  "Think of a dirty word that starts with an "F," he then suggested obliquely In unison, three of the other detectives made a four-letter suggestion, the presence of Saint Theresa notwithstanding.

  "No," answered Shassad, "the word I'm thinking of has five letters." He looked expectantly from face to face. His dark eyebrows were raised slightly, his thin lips pursed in anticipation. When there were no takers after several seconds he offered the answer.

  ' "Front," " he said.

  "Rota Films is a front for something. Any ideas what?"

  Again, silence.

  Ill" said Shassad, his playfulness turning into annoyance, "I don't know, either. I don't know how it's connected to Jacobus and I don't know how it connects with Thomas Daniels."

  "Daniels?" asked Grimaldi.

  "Of course' scoffed Shassad.

  "For Christ's sake, his old man was as dirty as they come when it came to a sneak operation. I got a gut feeling about Thomas Daniels. I say the only difference between him and his old man is that the old man was five times as smart."

  Shassad glanced at the other faces in the room. There was no disagreement.

  Chapter 27

  The note arrived late in the afternoon while Thomas was out. One odd aspect of it, in retrospect, was that he'd only been gone a short time. It was as if she'd made a conscious effort to avoid him.

  The other odd aspect was that it was typewritten. Where had she obtained a typewriter? And why, suddenly, was she now using one?

  He attributed those two concerns to her idiosyncrasies. The important thing was that the note was signed Leslie and she was summoning him to another lat
e meeting. Midnight, this time. But tonight theyd be hiding in plain sight. She gave as a meeting place a discotheque named Suzanne's on East Fifty-second Street. He had no choice. He would go.

  Suzanne's, at midnight, was simultaneously colorful, loud, garish, and crowded. Thomas arrived a few minutes before the hour, entered and waited at the end of a long, dim bar which afforded a look at both the front door and the dance floor. The bar and the dance floor were ringed by mirrors. Some enterprising proprietor had had an inspiration in dry ice and a thin, filmy cloud floated around everyone's feet.

  Reds, yellows, and greens dominated, mostly in plastic, neon, and then more neon. Cramped tables lined the outer reaches of the dance floor and tobacco smoke wafted around the sound system which hung from the ceiling. On the dance floor, gaudily clad youths moved dispassionately to the blaring music. Suzanne's was, Thomas Daniels observed, either a dream or a nightmare, depending on one's perspective; the kind of a place which makes one want to dress up or throw up. Again, depending.

  There were no laws against bad taste, Thomas reminded himself.

  Thomas remained at the end of the bar, studying alternately the dancing area and the entrance. Watching, waiting, growing impatient. No Leslie.

  He was aware of movement next to him. He glanced at a man he'd never seen before, then looked away.

  "Looking for some action?" The words barely carried above the sound of rock music. When the man repeated the words, Thomas knew he was being spoken to by someone with a vaguely British accent.

  "I'm waiting for someone."

  The man smiled.

  "Sure" he said.

  Thomas looked away, attempting to ignore his new acquaintance.

  The man elbowed him and continued to talk.

  "Plenty of unattached ass here" he proclaimed.

  "Won't find it on a bar stool, though. Got to make the move over there' The man pointed toward the hustling figures in the larger room.

  Thomas turned toward him.

  "That's not what I'm looking for! All right?" he snapped, raising his voice to be heard.

  The man raised his open palms in mock surrender, as if to apologize. He was silent for a moment, then also shouting to be heard, announced,

  "I know what you are here for."

  Thomas studied the entrance and the dance floor again, then checked his watch. It was twelve ten. He felt the elbow against his arm again. He looked back and the man was holding his hand open, a small glass vial in his palm.

  "What the hell's that?" asked Daniels, annoyed.

  "It's what you want."

  "Get lost" "You snort it, man. It's terrific. It'll get you a rush like-" Thomas glared into the man's eyes.

  "I said, get lost! Can't you hear me?"

  The man only smiled.

  "Your name's Daniels, isn't it?" he asked.

  "And you're looking for my friend Leslie?"

  Thomas froze. He studied the man intensely. The man's palm closed on the vial, but the small glass object was not put in a pocket.

  "Where is she?" Thomas asked.

  "Let's sit down" the man said amiably, pointing to two empty chairs at a table toward the opposite end of the bar.

  "It's important' ' Thomas didn't know whether to trust him or not. But again, he had little choice other than to follow events.

  They sat at a small table, leaving their drinks behind. Daniels figured he'd give the man two minutes to make sense. Otherwise he'd consider the typed note a hoax and leave. He looked at the man carefully again as they sat. He was about to speak when he became aware of movement behind him, two figures emerging from the fury and sound of center stage at Suzanne's.

  Daniels attempted to whirl and get to his feet since the two faces were familiar. Instantly he knew why he'd been drawn here. And by whom.

  But as he tried to rise, four hands seized him and jammed him roughly back into the wooden chair. He cursed at them and tried to flail with his arms.

  But Grover held him on one side. And the bearded Hunter had him pinned steadfastly on the other.

  Then as Daniels struggled, amidst the noise and flashing lights, his nose was accosted by a repulsive smell which made his entire head jerk backwards. His eyes glazed, but through the red and yellow and green he could see enough to know what was happening.

  The man from the bar was leaning forward. The cap had been removed from -the vial and the small glass container was being jammed beneath Daniels nose.

  He tried to move his head away, but someone was gripping him by the hair. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs gave out and he gasped.

  Then he coughed violently, gasping again, taking in large gulps of the chemical being forced upon him.

  The will to resist left him. He felt his limbs growing weak and the fight was gone from his arms. It all seemed better now, the noise and these men around him. Within the dull blur they seemed less menacing.

  Another gulp and he was almost unconscious, not struggling at all.

  The next thing he knew he was walking, or being helped to walk.

  His legs were wobbly and his senses were askew. But Grover had him on one side and Hunter on the other. They were walking him out, taking him from the cigarette-stenched air of Suzanne's out into the cold night.

  He remembered hearing Hunter speak to the man at the door.

  "Our friend's had too much to drink already," Hunter said. And Daniels could hear distant laughter. He tried to talk, but the words came out garbled. More laughter.

  He was aware of being pushed into a car and feeling both dizzy and sick in the backseat. Then everything was blackening and he remembered thinking that if this was dying, it certainly was easy.

  Chapter 28

  Voices. Distant voices, becoming louder.

  Thomas turned over on the bed and was slowly conscious. He saw the dingy ceiling and stared at it without comprehension. He saw sunlight streaming in from behind drawn venetian blinds and he saw the bare branches of a tree beyond the blinds and the window.

  He sat up in bed, still hearing the voices, men's voices, in the next room. Voices with English accents. One American accent, too. He was suddenly dizzy and his head was aching, a headache beyond comprehension. He slipped back onto the pillow and thought.

  Where was he? He knew his mind was working slowly, but he simply couldn't figure it out. Where was he?

  Then he realized. He recognized nothing because he had never been in this room before. And the last thing he remembered was that Knight of the Nightlife accosting his nostrils with that stinking vial.

  He lay there until he thought he could walk. He could not discern what the voices were saying. But if he could make it to the window and peek beyond the blinds, well, maybe at least he'd have an inkling of where he was.

  He tried to stand.

  He wobbled and took a step.

  Then the dizziness was upon him and he swayed. One direction, then the other. He groped for the bedpost and missed by several feet. He tumbled forward, knocking over a wooden chair and banging noisily with a thud onto the floor.

  The voices stopped. Moments later the door opened.

  Hunter stood there, watching him from that round face with the puffy relentless eyes. Hunter turned and addressed the men behind him.

  "He's up," he said.

  Thomas wanted to say something but was still too woozy. Then he heard footsteps. Three men were walking toward him from the doorway. Hunter was the first, Grover the second.

  The third was an older man.

  Thomas's vision was blurred. He squinted and glared at the third man and was struck by the idea, the sudden flash of excitement, that this could indeed be Arthur Sandler. At last. It was in fact an older man.

  Tall, lean, and graceful. Meticulously dressed in a dark Saville Row suit. He stepped past Hunter and Grover and stopped, looking down at Thomas and flanked by the two henchmen.

  Thomas tried to focus on the face. It was familiar. He had seen it before.

  "Whiteside,"
he muttered. And he let his cheek touch the floor again.

  "Yes," said Whiteside thoughtfully, as if in response to a question.

  "Yes, it is " He turned to Grover and Hunter.

  "Wake him up, damn it," he ordered crisply.

  "He didn't even welcome me to America."

  Thomas felt the footsteps coming, then he felt the hands on him.

  He was sat up and shaken, then stood up. The two men began to undress him and warned him not to resist. Stripped to his undershorts, and allowed to keep them in the interest of decency, he was walked to the bathroom adjoining the bedroom. He managed to see out a window. He was in a house in the country somewhere and it appeared to be midmorning.

  "Your morning bath, sir," Hunter grunted with obvious enjoyment.

  Hunter's hammy fist reached into a shower and turned on the frigid water full blast. Then, with no further introduction, Hunter and Grover shoved Thomas into the jet of water.

  Forty-five minutes later, Thomas had been permitted to dry himself and dress in fresh clothes. He was seated in the living room of a small apparently rural house. He was on a sofa sipping a lukewarm cup of black coffee.

  Grover was to his right. Hunter was to his left. Both were seated.

  Whiteside was seated in an armchair in front of him. Whiteside was talking.

  "From what I hear," Whiteside purred amiably, leaning, forward a trifle for emphasis, 'you made my associate, Mr. Hunter, do a little wrestling" He stared at Thomas primly and blankly.

  "Rather nasty of you, I should think."

  Thomas set down the coffee on the table, wondering absently what was in it. He could imagine battery acid which would taste better. But then the English were cognoscenti of Asian leaves, not South American beans.

  "Where am I?"

  "Safe," offered Whiteside, as if giving a benediction.

  "Quite safe, I should say."

  Thomas's eyes drifted to Grover, then to Hunter.

  "Safe?" he asked, indicating the latter.

  "With this ape here?"

  Hunter smirked.

  "Mr. Hunter is a paragon of delicacy and fine manners said Whiteside.

  "I have no doubt whatsoever that if Mr. Hunter used force to bring you here, it was because you provoked him. Is that not the case?" he asked, turning to Hunter.