There was a strained silence. Scanlon was outside Herman the German’s chain of command and was tempted to get up and leave. He decided to wait, to see what was on the inspector’s mind. He watched Schmidt staring at him, chewing the tip of his cigar. A dark brown sediment coated the inspector’s teeth. “You find anything in his locker?” His tone was low, inquisitive, and casual.
“Nothing interesting. A throwaway and some old memo books.”
“A bird whispered in my ear that Gallagher was hit.” He fixed Scanlon with a hard stare. “Any truth to that?”
Scanlon’s stump hurt. “At this point we don’t know for sure what went down inside that candy store. It might have been a holdup or it could have been a hit. But on who? Gallagher? Zimmerman? We just don’t know.”
“I have a personal interest in this case, Lou.”
“I can understand that, Inspector.”
“I don’t want to end my days on the garbage heap. Joe Gallagher was one of my lieutenants, and I want his killer caught. So don’t misunderstand what I’m about to say. But if he was into anything he shouldn’t have been into it’ll be my ass. Failure to supervise, they’ll say in the big building.”
Scanlon nodded his appreciation of Herman the German’s position. “I had planned on stopping by to see you tomorrow to ask you some questions about Gallagher. Mind answering them now?”
Herman the German removed the cigar from his mouth, purposefully knocked the thick ash into a clean ashtray, and began tamping it with the glowing end of the cigar.
“I’ll answer your questions,” Herman the German said. “Most everyone in the Job knew Joe Gallagher. The public side of him.”
“I need to know what he was really like,” Scanlon said.
Herman the German thought a moment, rolling the tip of his cigar over the crushed ash. He let the cigar fall into the ashtray and heaved himself up onto his feet and started pacing restlessly. “What kind of a guy was he? He was the kind of a guy that they name streets after—one way, and dead end.”
Scanlon’s gaze followed him around the office. Large pin maps covered the walls. Narcotics Prone Locations were designated in green; buy locations, red; wiretap locations, white; surveillance locations, blue. A large map of the Borough of Queens had the five precincts that composed the Seventeenth Narcotics District outlined in black. Herman the German paused in front of the Queens map and let his hand move over it as though searching for a specific location. His back was to Scanlon. “What do you know about the Narcotics Division, Lou?”
“Not very much, Inspector. Most of my time in the Job has been in the Bureau.”
“Each borough command is divided into narcotics districts, which are made up of a certain number of patrol precincts.” His hand stopped. He turned abruptly to face Scanlon. “Each district gets buy money to run their operations. In our buy-and-bust units it’s SOP for each undercover to have a backup whenever he or she makes a buy. Each district also runs operations that attempt to penetrate the top of narcotics networks. Those kinds of operations deal in kilo weight and take time, patience, and a lot of money. Joe Gallagher’s assignment was to run this district’s buy-and-bust unit, mainly nickel and dime bags. The men and women of this unit were his people. But they seldom saw him. Gallagher was a big star, the Job’s unofficial master of ceremonies. The big man in the Holy Name. Joe Gallagher, superstar. But I’ll tell you what he wasn’t. And that was a leader. Whenever I or another boss paid this office an unannounced visit, Gallagher was among the missing. On patrol, they’d say, covering for him. He never went into the street with his people, never supervised any of his operations. He let the fucking office run itself. He couldn’t tell you what operations his units were running. I tried on several occasions to get rid of him. But he had too much weight. I gave him bad evaluations. Recommended reassignment to less demanding work. I got telephone calls from the chief of Organized Crime Control suggesting that I reevaluate my evaluation of Gallagher. I raised his rating from below standards to above standards.” His face flushed and the veins in his neck grew pronounced. He leaned his back against the map of Queens, waiting for the next question.
“Who ran the shop?”
“Nobody. His paper was a shambles. There was no record of the disbursement of his buy money. No documentation of overtime. His Eleven Cards were barely touched. There was no supervision of buy operations. The place was a goddamn mess.” He punched his leg in anger. “Around two years ago Gallagher asked me to give him a Second Whip. He wanted to pick up Sgt. George Harris, who at the time was the Second Whip of the Two-eight Squad. They’d come on the Job together and had worked together in the Manhattan South Robbery Task Force and a few other assignments. I put in a Forty-nine requesting Harris, and a week later we picked him up in orders. In a week! Can you imagine that? It usually takes a request for transfer three months before it’s acted upon. Gallagher made one phone call. That was the kind of weight he had in the Job.”
A Harris was in Gallagher’s address book. His original number, with a 516 area code, had been crossed out and replaced by one with a 718 code. The name Luise had been written beside it in parentheses. She had a 212 number. “What’s Harris like?”
“A bit of a maverick. But the guy knows how to run a shop. He wasn’t here three weeks and the paper was all up to snuff and the office running the way a narcotics district should.”
“And Gallagher?”
“He continued to be the darling of the Job. He was doing talk shows on the radio and television. Big narcotics expert. The silly shit couldn’t find a junkie in Needle Park. Gallagher was more than content to let Harris run his shop for him.”
“Where does Harris live?” Scanlon asked, taking out a De Nobili.
“Huguenot, on Staten Island. He recently moved back into the city from Port Jefferson. Taxes and commuting got too much for him.”
“Do you know his wife’s name?”
“Ann, I think. Why?”
“I knew a Harris on the Job. His wife’s name was Geraldine.”
Herman the German began to shake his head. “It might sound funny, but for all of Gallagher’s faults there was something about the guy I liked. He was alive, never down. No matter how pissed off he made you, he’d always leave you with a smile on your face.”
“He was that kind of a guy, Inspector.” Scanlon lit his De Nobili. “Has Harris been notified about his boss?”
“He’s with the family now. They were pretty close. Used to socialize together.”
“If you have no objections, Inspector, I’d like to take Gallagher’s personnel record with me. There might be something there that could help me with the investigation.”
A suspicious expression came over Herman the German’s face. “Department records may not be removed from a command except by due process or with the permission of the PC, a deputy commissioner, or a ranking officer above the rank of captain.”
Examining the tip of his De Nobili, Scanlon said, “Inspector is above the rank of captain.”
“True,” Herman the German said. “But why don’t you tell me why I should give that permission? After all, if there should be anything in his record that’s important to the investigation and it should disappear from his folder and IAD or some other hump unit looks and can’t find it, I’m the one who’d have to take the fall. So you tell me, Lou, why should I play Mister Nice Guy?”
Scanlon brushed lint from his knee. “Because one of your people got himself killed. And because if during the course of the investigation I should come up with anything that might reflect negatively on your stewardship of Queens Narcotics, I’ll personally send a little bird to whisper in your ear.”
By ten-fifteen that night Scanlon arrived back at the Nine-three Squad carrying Gallagher’s personnel record in several folders wrapped in twine. Hector Colon was sitting in front of a yellow makeup mirror trimming the thick black mustache that he liked to lick every time Maggie Higgins looked his way. Colon was a trendy dresser with a handsom
e Latin face, an Irish wife, and two sons in Massapequa Park—and an unmarried Polish girlfriend who had her own pad in Greenpoint.
Scanlon put the package on top of the cabinet next to the carton that he and Higgins had removed from Gallagher’s Jackson Heights splash pad. Colon came in and told Scanlon that he had just been notified that temporary headquarters had been secured. The Log, flag, and lantern were back in the property room. Higgins, Christopher, and Brodie had signed out for the day and would be back on deck early in the morning. Colon motioned to the carton atop the cabinet. “You goin’ mention that stuff in any of the reports?”
Scanlon hung his jacket on the department-issued coat rack that was next to the barred window. “No,” he said, moving back to his desk.
“Señor Teniente, the Palace Guard is gonna be highly pissed off if they find out that you held out on them.”
Scanlon knew that every DD 5, Supplementary Complaint Report, that was used to report additional phases of an investigation was supposed to be confidential.
“Every Five that we send down to Crime Coding ends up in some reporter’s hip pocket. Every civilian clerk there is some news-hound’s stool, for a price. And I have no intention of seeing Gallagher’s reputation smeared so that those parasites can sell more newspapers. He had a family, and it’s our job to protect them.”
“Ten-four, Teniente,” Colon said, turning to leave the Whip’s office. “See you in the ayem. I’m spending the night with my lady friend, if you should need me.”
When Colon had gone and Scanlon was alone, he turned and looked wonderingly at the carton. Joe, he thought, what kind of shit did you get yourself into this time? I owe you, Joe, so I’ll do whatever I can to save your miserable reputation for you. You crazy son of a bitch.
Scanlon pulled over the homicide case folder and began to separate the reports into two piles. He put the forensics reports in one and the canvass results and the witness statements in the other. From the squad room outside he could hear the scratchy cadence of the radio calls mixed with the hunt-and-peck sound of a typewriter. He leaned back in his seat and stared up at the decaying ceiling. He had been on a high since he first received Higgins’s urgent telephone call at Monte’s. Now he felt drained. His day had been one that was filled with sadness and a strange feeling of personal satisfaction. During the time he had been the Whip of the Nine-three Squad the office had caught the usual assortment of residential burglaries, payroll robberies, a few muggings, about a half-dozen vehicular homicides, and a dozen or so husband-wife or boyfriend-girlfriend assaults. Nothing that a detective could dig his teeth into. And now the Squad had a mystery on its hands. Person or persons unknown had done a double murder, and in so doing had released Scanlon’s dormant predatory instincts. He was a predator stalking urban prey. He was back in the only game that really mattered; his time in purgatory was over.
He leaned forward in his seat and pushed the start button on the cassette tape recorder next to the tear-off calendar. Earlier in the tour he had dispatched the Biafra Baby to the Communications Unit to sign out the original tape of the call to 911 that reported the double homicide. All calls coming into and out of 911 are recorded and held for ninety days before the tapes are erased and reused. “You’d better get someone over to 311 Driggs Avenue. A police lieutenant has just been killed.” It was a man’s halting voice with a deep, throaty resonance. The operator’s calm, professional voice followed. “Is there a callback number where you may be reached, sir?”
“Cut the bullshit, lady. Have someone get over here right quick. I told you, a cop has been shot.”
When the recording ended, Scanlon arched a finger down onto the stop button. He had wanted to hear it one more time, to be sure. He knew that voice. It belonged to Walter Ticornelli.
It was after midnight when Tony Scanlon walked into Monte’s. The dining-room crowd had thinned out, but serious drinkers were still three deep at the bar. Carmine, the maître d’, came up to him. “Would you like to eat, Lieutenant?”
“I didn’t come to play boccie,” Scanlon said, flashing a warm smile. Carmine led him into the dining room and offered him a choice of tables on either side of the room. He selected a small table under the hanging plants and had begun to slide into the banquette when the maître d’ bent forward and pulled out the table for him. A tuxedoed waiter appeared, placed a menu down, and then backed reverently away to await his pleasure. Scanlon looked over the fare and gave his order. A busboy came over and deposited a basket of warm bread and filled his water glass. “That was something about them murders. You gonna break the case, Lieutenant?”
Scanlon looked into the grinning Latin face and winked. “We break ’em all, Julio.” The busboy left with a big smile on his face.
Angelo Esposito, the barber from Hess Street, came over and sat down, uninvited. “Goodta seeya, Lieutenant,” the barber said. “Who would have thought such a thing could happen in this neighborhood?” He leaned across the table to confide, “It was probably some nigger or spic from Flushing Avenue.”
Scanlon answered the barber with friendly banality. “We have a few leads, Angelo. But nothing that I can discuss. You understand.” He tossed the barber his best confidential wink, and was greatly relieved to see Julio approaching with his salad.
The barber saw Julio coming and got up.
Later, lingering over the dregs of his espresso and the last of his wine, Scanlon stared ahead at the grouping of plaques commemorating the Monte family’s civic achievements. Sitting across from him was a distinguished-looking man who appeared to be a well-preserved sixty. Clinging to his arm, listening attentively to each pronouncement, was an attractive woman with glistening pink lips and long black hair, who appeared to be in her middle thirties. You never see them with poor old men, Scanlon thought.
He leaned back and lit a De Nobili, enjoying its rich taste and aroma. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the round robin that Biafra Baby had brought back with him from police headquarters. He reread the internal record check on Joe Gallagher. The units of the department responsible for internal security reported that they had no disciplinary record on Lt. Joseph P. Gallagher.
Fifteen minutes later when he walked from the dining room out into the bar area, Joe Bite, the night bartender, called him over and asked him if he’d like a nightcap. “Hennessy,” he said, sliding his real leg onto the rail.
Joe Bite slapped down a cocktail napkin and set down the pony glass.
Swirling the brandy around, Scanlon spotted his waiter at the end of the bar, caught his attention, and with his free hand scribbled on air to indicate that he wanted his bill. The waiter came over to him and discreetly whispered that Angelo Esposito, the barber from Hess Street, had done the right thing. Scanlon nodded, took out a roll of money, palmed a twenty, and shook the waiter’s hand, a cop’s way of saying thanks.
Joe Bite came over. “One for the road, Lieutenant?”
What a Job! Christmas every day of the year, he thought, reaching for the half-filled pony glass.
Distant traffic sounds rumbled across the night. An airplane skimmed low on the horizon. Scanlon drove his car into Mill Street between Herkimer and the Newtown Creek. There were no buildings on the north side of the street, only a vacant lot filled with rubbish and ugly construction scars. Polker’s Bar and Grill was on the south side of the street. Attached to the bar’s southern extremity was a stucco-and-timbered house with a mansard roof. Flush against the house on its other side was a one-story, flat-roofed factory building.
Gretta Polchinski owned all the land on Mill Street between Herkimer and the Newtown Creek. The people in that part of Greenpoint could never seem to agree on the exact date that Gretta first appeared on the scene and opened her establishment. But everyone in the neighborhood did agree that Gretta’s brothel was run very discreetly.
It was one-forty in the morning when Scanlon drove up into the curb cut, honked the car horn twice, and waited for an eye to peer out of the elongated peeph
ole that had been cut into the steel door. A metallic click, surprisingly loud in the quietness of the street, was immediately followed by the churning of the heavy door upward.
Once the door was fully open, Scanlon was directed inside by a pop-eyed black man. He parked his car between two foundation columns and got out. He became conscious of garage smells as he looked around the building, searching for a particular car. Spotting the one he was looking for, he walked over to the attendant, slipped him a five-dollar tip, and made for the four steps that led into the cinder-block passage that emptied into the basement of the house. He inserted his plastic key into the slot in the metal-sheathed door and waited a few seconds until the door clicked open.
The dominant motif was knotty pine. A carved bald eagle was over the bar, and above it two crossed flags. The Stars and Stripes and the Polish Imperial Banner. An old-fashioned jukebox outlined by a rainbow of moving lights stood against the wood-and-glass partition that separated the bar from the small dance floor.
Scanlon moved slowly, looking for Gretta in the crowd. He did not see her. He went up to the outer edge of the dance floor and looked into the darkness beyond. He saw her sitting alone at one of the small tables that ringed the dance floor, her face dimly visible in the faint light from the bar. She was dunking a silver tea egg into a porcelain cup.
“Looking for a good time, handsome?” she said as he approached her.
“How’s business, Gretta?” he said, pulling out a scroll-back chair.
Gretta Polchinski was a short, squat woman with a high, flat forehead, a sagging chin, and a wild head of platinum hair that resembled brittle straw. She was fond of wearing low-cut dresses that displayed her wrinkled cleavage and the rows upon rows of gold chains around her neck.
She laid her bejeweled hand on the top of his and confided, “Tony, I have just taken on the most magnificent creature you have ever seen in your life. A Vietnamese. With a body that is not to be believed. And because I like you so much, you can have her for the night, on the arm.”
Suspects Page 5