Alone with the Dead

by Robert J. Randisi

  "Good night, Joe."

  He stepped into the hallway and she closed the door in his face, but not before he saw her satisfied smile.

  He went back to his apartment to work up his moves for the next day, but the kiss kept intruding. He'd kissed Nancy in the past, but never like that. He was afraid of the consequences of a kiss like that.

  He thought about Nancy and Cindy, but he eventually pushed them aside to think about Len Swann, Marcia Swann, and their children, as well as Dan Slovecky and two serial killers who liked to use roses to defile their victims.

  He fell asleep in a chair and dreamed that he was walking barefoot on a bed of roses-with thorns.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Keough spent the next two days talking to as many people as he could who either worked with, under, or over Dan Slovecky.

  The people he worked with didn't like him. The partners he'd had didn't stay partners with him very long, and the other men he'd worked with were glad they'd never been partners.

  "Dan was out for himself." Ivan Rogoff had been partners with Slovecky for four months in a radio car when both of them had been on the job for five years. Rogoff now worked as a desk sergeant in a Staten Island precinct that was generally known as a "country club."

  "You sure he's not gonna hear about this?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Why'd you say you were askin', again?"

  "I've got to work for him," Keough said, "and I heard he was a tough nut. I'm just trying to find out some stuff about him."

  "Well, that was Danny boy's specialty."

  "What was?"

  "Finding out stuff about people."

  "How do you mean?"

  Rogoff leaned across the desk to get closer to Keough. He was so big around the middle that the move didn't get him all that closer.

  "I mean he watched people, other cops, usually anybody who had a higher rank than him. He watched them real careful, and he noticed things."

  "Noticed things?"

  "Yeah, you know, like who was seein' who, who was shacking up with who-he caught a lieutenant doin' a female civilian in the captain's office one time. The lieutenant swore him to secrecy and Danny boy kept the secret-until he needed somebody to sign him a transfer. You get what I mean?"

  "He blackmailed people?"

  "Only when he needed something, and never for something big. I mean, he never had enough on anybody high enough to get himself promoted, but he was able to get little things for himself-better shifts, vacation days, and transfers. Get it?"

  "I got it."

  "You're sure he ain't gonna hear about this?"

  "Not a word."

  ***

  Keough found that when people heard he was asking questions about Slovecky, they acted hesitant but were actually eager to talk. Apparently, Dan Slovecky had made very few friends during his years on the job.

  ***

  "He was a pig," Detective Second Grade Andrea Service said. She was another old partner of Slovecky's, seven months' worth, when they were both working Narcotics during the late seventies. He had been a detective, while Service had simply been a plainclothes cop.

  She was a handsome woman in her early forties with white hair cut very short. She had a face that looked better in profile, because from there all you could see were the strong nose and jaw. When you looked at her head-on, she had a weak chin and close-set eyes, but she was still attractive.

  "He tried to get me to sleep with him the first night we worked together. Told me he had friends who could help move me along in the department."

  "And he didn't?"

  She snorted. "If he did, they didn't do me any good. No, what Danny Slovecky had was a way of getting things on people-little things, things that would get him certain favors. Hey, maybe he even got laid because of these things, but he never got into my pants."

  "You said he had a way of getting things on people?"

  She stared at him for a moment, then said, "Oh, I see. You want to know if he got anything on me?"

  "Sorry, but…"

  "That's okay. No, the only thing he got on me is that I was young, and I thought my pants were pure gold. I worked damn hard to get this far-and this is as far as I've gotten, because I wouldn't put out."

  Det. Andrea Service was assigned to the Missing Persons Squad, and she did most of her work taking reports over the phone.

  "Maybe if I'd slept with him, I'd be a sergeant by now, huh?" she asked. "Not!"

  Keough wondered if Service had actually gotten no further because of her refusal to trade sex for promotions. He was no choirboy, but he would hate to think that was how women had to get ahead on this job.

  ***

  After Keough had interviewed enough of Slovecky's peers and ex-partners to determine that he was far from a well-liked man, he decided to find someone whom Slovecky had worked for. He wanted to get a perspective from the other side.

  He ended up visiting a retired captain named Truxton Lewis. The man lived in a small wood-frame house in Queens, and when Keough arrived, he was working in his garage. His wife answered the door and directed Keough around to the garage.

  As Keough approached the two-car garage, he could see that it was set up as a woodworking shop. The man inside was in his sixties, with white hair and large hands. He was tall and lanky, and at the moment was bending over an electric saw that was affixed to a homemade table. Around his feet, the fresh sawdust was being stirred by the small fan that was sitting on a shelf. Outside the garage was a Chevy wagon that no longer fit in the garage.

  Keough waited for the sound of the saw to die down and then called out, "Captain Lewis?"

  Lewis looked up and stared at Keough from behind a pair of plastic goggles.

  "Who wants to know?"

  "My name is Keough, Captain. I'm on the job."

  Lewis pulled off his glasses and a heavy pair of work gloves that he was wearing, then set them both down on the table. Obviously a careful man, he switched off the electric saw before speaking again.

  "Let's see it?"

  Keough knew that the man was talking about his shield. He took out his wallet and let the man see his badge and his ID.

  "You're not with IAD, are you?"

  Keough frowned. "No. Why would you think I was from Internal Affairs, Captain?"

  "Those sons of bitches come out here every once in a while to hassle me."

  "Why?"

  "You don't know?"

  "No, sir."

  "Don't call me sir," Truxton Lewis said, "and don't call me Captain."

  "Yes, sir… I mean, no sir… I mean…"

  "Call me Tru," Lewis said. "That's what everybody calls me. Tru. Got it?"

  "Yes… Tru."

  "Where'd you get my name from?"

  "A file."

  "What file?"

  "Lt. Dan Slovecky's personnel file." Keough had a friend in personnel.

  The look on Lewis's face changed abruptly, as if a dark cloud had suddenly settled on him.

  "If that son of a bitch sent you here, you can turn around and get the fuck away from me and my house."

  "Slovecky didn't send me."

  "You a friend of his?"

  "From what I've been able to find out, uh, Tru, Dan Slovecky had very few friends on the job."

  "Try no friends."

  At that moment, Mrs. Lewis appeared carrying two cans of Budweiser beer.

  "One for you and one for your guest, Truxton," she warned him. "Don't go drinking both of them."

  "I won't."

  "Here," Lewis said, handing Keough a beer. The other, he pressed to his sweaty forehead.

  "Thanks."

  "Well, if you're not friends with that bastard, you might as well come over here and sit."

  Keough followed Lewis to two folding chairs that were set up to the left of the garage.

  When they sat, Lewis was staring off in the direction his wife had gone.

  "She's the only person in my whole life I've let call me by my gi
ven name."

  "Truxton?"

  Lewis looked at Keough. "Bet you wonder where a horrible handle like that came from, huh?"

  "It had crossed my mind."

  "Well, I ain't gonna tell you." Lewis drank some beer and then looked directly at Keough. "What's this about Slovecky?"

  "I've been transferred to his squad, Tru, and I'm trying to find out what kind of a man he is."

  "His own squad? What squad would that be?"

  "It's a task force, the Lover Task Force."

  Lewis snorted. "No wonder that maniac hasn't been caught. Slovecky is in charge of that squad?"

  "Yes, si… uh, that's right."

  Lewis thought that over for a moment, shaking his head, and then directed his attention to Keough again.

  "Son, do I look like a fool?"

  "Uh, no, of course not."

  "Then don't treat me like one. I have never heard of a cop being assigned to a squad and then trying to dig up dirt on his new CO-except for Slovecky himself. Are you like him, son?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "Then tell me what the hell is goin' on here, or this conversation is over."

  Keough thought it over for a few moments and then figured, What the hell… After all, Lewis wasn't on the job anymore. So he told the retired captain more than he'd intended, but not the whole story. He told him about feeling that there were two killers, and about Slovecky covering that fact up to make one man-his killer-look better.

  "So he makes himself look better when he catches him," Lewis finished.

  "That's what I think."

  "Well, you've got no problem, son."

  "Why not?"

  "Slovecky isn't gonna catch him. He's not smart enough."

  "He's got detectives working for him, Tru; they're good men."

  "You know 'em?"

  "I knew one."

  "Knew?"

  Keough found himself telling Lewis the rest, about finding out that Len Swann felt the same way he did, about the memo, and then about Swann being killed.

  When he was finished, Keough found Lewis staring at him intently.

  "Tru?"

  "You think Slovecky killed him, don't you?"

  "The thought had crossed my mind, yeah."

  "Sure, that's why you're out here talking to me. You've talked to others, haven't you? Others who have worked with him?"

  "Yes, I have."

  Lewis smiled. "You're a good detective, son," he said. "I can tell a good detective when I see one."

  "Thank you."

  "That's not idle ass kissing. I retired from my own squad, you know. My men were good. They were like you, thorough and not afraid to rattle a few doors. Tell me something?"

  "If I can."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  Keough hesitated before answering.

  "It started because of a young girl being killed, and I didn't think anybody was looking for the right killer. Now I'm in it for a lot of other reasons."

  "To find out who killed your friend?"

  "That's one of them."

  "It's a bad thing," Lewis said, shaking his head, "a cop killing a cop."

  Keough didn't say anything.

  "You want to know if I think Slovecky is capable of it?"

  "I'd like to know what you think, yes."

  "Son, I haven't seen that man in ten years, but if he continued to develop the way he was going, and he thought that killing your friend-a cop-would get him what he wanted, then I wouldn't put it past him."

  Keough digested that and then said, "Thank you, Tru." He put the empty beer can on the ground and stood up.

  "I'll give you a piece of advice, too." Lewis stood up and walked as far as the open garage with Keough.

  "What's that?"

  Truxton Lewis stepped into the garage and picked up his plastic goggles.

  "I was you," he said, "I'd check into how Slovecky managed to get himself assigned whip of that task force."

  It sounded like good advice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It occurred to Keough later that if Slovecky had had bigger visions throughout his years on the job, he might have been able to get himself moved further along instead of trading what he knew for small favors. Apparently, he'd been a small thinker all his life.

  There were things in Slovecky's file that Keough didn't have to talk to people about. When he was on the street, Slovecky had been the recipient of more than his share of brutality beefs. When he became a detective, there were fewer, but they were still there. Even as a sergeant, he'd gotten himself into trouble for being quick-tempered, and quick with his fists, or his baton.

  What was clear was that Slovecky had always been a brutal man, as well as a thoroughly disliked one. Did that mean he was capable of murder? That probably depended on how badly he wanted to catch the Lover with more murders to his credit than he actually had.

  Keough decided that the man to talk to now was Sgt. Arthur Dolan, the second whip on the task force. He could offer some insight on the kind of man Dan Slovecky was now-that is, if he was willing to talk about-or against-his superior.

  Also, Keough wanted to find out-as Truxton Lewis had suggested-how a man like Dan Slovecky managed to wrangle himself the assignment as CO of the Lover Task Force.

  Keough called the task force office, hoping to catch Dolan still in. He was lucky. Whoever answered the phone caught Dolan as he was walking out.

  "Yeah, Dolan."

  "Sergeant, this is Joe Keough. I'm supposed to report to the task force tomorrow?"

  "Keough, right. What's the matter, calling in sick already?"

  "No, that's not it. Sarge, I'd like to meet with you tonight."

  "Meet with me? For what?"

  "I'd rather talk to you about it in person."

  "What's the gag, Keough? You looking to transfer out before you even transfer in? I can't help you…"

  "It's not that."

  Dolan heaved an impatient sigh. Keough imagined the man shifting from one foot to the other and looking at his watch.

  "Do you have anything to do tonight?"

  "Not really-not other than going home, and I'm not all that sure I want to do that."

  Keough had heard a lot of married cops echo that sentiment.

  "How about letting me buy you dinner?"

  There was a pause.

  "Is this important, Keough?"

  "It's about Len Swann's murder."

  "Swannie," Dolan said, sounding sad. "Jesus, that makes me mad. You got something? Are you working on that? What's your interest?"

  "Swannie and I were friends, Sarge," Keough explained. "We went through the Academy together, and we were working together on something when he was killed. In fact, I was the last person to see him alive that night."

  Another moment's hesitation and then Dolan said, "Then you should be talking to the investigating officer."

  "I have, twice. Now I want to talk to you."

  "About what?"

  "Again, I don't want to talk about it on the phone."

  "Ah shit, you're lucky me and my old lady aren't getting along these days, Keough. Where do you want to meet?"

  "You pick it," Keough said, "but don't make it a cop hangout."

  "I fucking hate cop hangouts," Dolan said. "You know a burger joint called Those Were the Days?"

  "On Thirty-third and Eighth?" Keough was drawing on his former knowledge of Manhattan.

  "That's the one. I stop in there sometimes on the way home from work, for a beer and a burger. I'll be there in…" Keough saw in his mind's eye the man looking at his watch again "… about fifteen minutes, and I should be there for a couple of hours. If you show up, we can talk."

  "I'll show up, Sarge," Keough said. "Thanks."

  ***

  It took Keough forty minutes to drive from Queens, over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge to Manhattan, and then downtown to West Thirty-third and Eighth. The bar was across the street from Madison Square Garden. It was after 6:30 when he arrived,
and some parking spots had opened up nearby. The work day was done and this busy section of Manhattan-on the edge of the Garment District-was winding down to a halt. Maybe that was why Dolan liked it.

  He entered the place and realized that he didn't know what Arthur Dolan looked like. He suspected, however, from the way the man talked that he'd probably take his burger and beer right at the bar. At the moment, there was a man in one seat, working on a hamburger, and a woman a bit farther down who seemed to be working on the man.

  "… good looking man shouldn't be eatin' alone," she was saying as Keough entered. She looked to be in her forties, a professional bar bimbo looking for an early pickup.

  "For the last time, lady," Dolan said, "I'm not interested."

  "Whataya, gay or somethin'? Come on, I'll show you how it feels to be with a woman."

  The man turned and said something to the woman that Keough didn't hear, then showed her his palm.

  "Jesus," she said, sliding off her seat fast. She headed for the door, and as she passed Keough, she was muttering something about "… if they're not gay, they're cops."

  Keough went over and sat down on a stool next to the man.

  "Sergeant Dolan?"

  "You Keough?" Dolan asked.

  "That's right."

  "Drop the Sergeant stuff, okay? I eat here a lot and nobody knows I'm a cop."

  "Have it your way."

  "You want something to eat?"

  Keough realized how hungry he was and nodded.

  "What you're having looks good."

  "Hal, bring my friend a bacon burger and a Watney's."

  Keough had not ever had Watney's before, but he was willing to try it.

  Dolan was in his late thirties, a red-faced Irishman with the road-map face of a drinker, brown hair, green eyes, and a mouth that turned up at the ends. He had the face of a man who should be smiling, but Keough doubted he smiled much. Maybe at one time he had, but not much anymore.

  "Okay, so you're here," Dolan said. "What's this all about?"

  "I want to talk to you about Lieutenant Slovecky."