Four of them leaped over the fence and rushed into the garden, trampling the vegetables, tearing them out of the earth and tossing them around the yard. Teddy stood by, doing nothing to stop them, tears of shame burning his eyes. Suddenly he heard Melina’s frantic voice and he turned in time to see his sister running up out of the basement. She shouted at the tormentors to stop, yelling that they should be ashamed of themselves. The jeering kids circled Melina. They began to manhandle her. She fought back, slapping and kicking and cursing them in Greek. One of the youths made a grab at her breast. She kicked him. He punched her in the face, sending her spinning onto the ground.
Teddy saw his sister lying in the dirt. He screamed at the tormentors and threw his hoe at them. They hesitated, briefly taken aback by Teddy’s unexpected bravery. Then they began to laugh at him, standing their ground with adolescent bravado.
Teddy rushed at them, targeting the biggest one, a tall burly boy with husky shoulders and big biceps. He could feel the power surging through his legs as he struck, arching his right foot up into the boy’s face, knocking out teeth and toppling him onto his knees. Teddy wheeled and smashed his foot into the boy’s stomach, splaying him backward onto the ground.
The other boys backed off, but Teddy’s fury propelled him forward. He kicked another of them in the groin, and when he doubled over, he struck out with his foot, splattering the boy’s nose like a crushed tomato. The ferocity of his attack caused the others to break and escape over the fence. Teddy helped his sister up off the ground and into the house, leaving the remaining two rolling in the dirt. His worst fear never came to pass: the police never came to his home; that was not how things were settled in Ridgewood.
That night when Teddy and his sister told their father what had happened, the father smiled, ruffled Teddy’s hair, and said, “You did right.”
Teddy was never again bothered, nor was any member of his family, after the incident in the backyard. As he grew older, Teddy became more attuned to his new way of life. He would refuse to speak his native tongue unless it was absolutely necessary to do so. At some point he decided that he wanted to be a policeman. Policemen were safe from the taunts of others and they helped other people, peasants, immigrants, and others in need of help. There were still times when he would get that anxious peasant feeling, and it was then that he remembered the bombs and got scared.
Staring at the icon, he saw his mother and sister praying behind the rocks. He grabbed it off the dresser, tossed it back into the drawer, took his lieutenant’s shield off the top, and left for the office.
Chief of Detectives Tim Edgeworth, a big man with a heavy, overhanging brow, cold blue eyes, and thick lips, lit his pipe, unpinned the communication referral slip from the UF49, and tossed the pin into a glass ashtray. Another heavy, he sighed. The pink slips come down the chain direct from the police commissioner. He scanned the rows of endorsements; each one summarized the report and gave conclusions and recommendations. Some of them continued on the back of the official letterhead.
C of D Edgeworth removed the translation of the communication the NYPD had received from the Hellenic Police. One Major Andreas Vassos, Athens’ Security Prefecture, was being sent to New York City to investigate the murder of two Greek police officers.
“Fucking cop killers,” Edgeworth muttered, thinking of the six cops who had recently been shot in El Bronxo. He studied the report from the State Department. State requested that the NYPD render all possible assistance to the Greek police. He read it a third time and frowned. Tossing it on his desk, he leaned back in his chair and looked meditatively at the ceiling. It didn’t make any sense: why would the feds step aside on something this sensitive? Normally they would have insisted on assigning a small army of FBI and State Department people for liaison, rather than just the one man listed as a federal liaison contact. His name was Hayden. Instead here they were, handing the NYPD this one on a silver platter. Or was it on the end of a long, dirty stick?
Edgeworth picked it up gingerly and read it through again. The original Greek request had been filed with the U. S. embassy in Athens. It was approved and sent on to the Bureau of Diplomatic Security in Washington, D. C. Hayden’s agency. Washington approved the request and forwarded it along with accompanying documents to the Diplomatic Security field office in NYC.
The request had been hand delivered to the PC. The First Deputy Commissioner’s recommendation: APPROVAL. Chief of the Department: APPROVAL. Deputy Commissioner, Administration: APPROVAL. Deputy Commissioner, Legal Matters: APPROVAL. Edgeworth read the PC’s final endorsement:
Major Andreas Vassos, Hellenic Police Department, will be extended every courtesy by members of this department. He will be assigned to a subordinate command within the Detective Division. The CO of that command will be responsible for the major’s supervision and control. Major Vassos should, if possible, be assigned to a command where one or more members are fluent in the Greek language.
Forward to the C of D for implementation and report. Recommend: APPROVAL.
C of D Edgeworth studied the printout listing Greek-speaking detectives and their present assignments. Thirty-seven members of the Detective Division had demonstrated some proficiency in the language. Lieutenant Teddy Lucas, the Whip of the Sixteenth Detective Squad, spoke Greek. Edgeworth leaned back and fondly recalled the eight years he had spent in the Sixteenth Squad. They were great years, the best. Was it possible, really possible, that that had been over twenty-five years ago?
He snapped forward in his seat and pressed one of the buttons in the row on the right side of his desk. Sergeant Jacobs, Edgeworth’s lead clerical, came in with a stack of folders neatly tucked under his beefy arm. “Yes, Chief?”
“Did you look over the forty-nine on this Major Vassos?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied, settling comfortably into the chair on the side of the desk with the relaxed air of a confidant.
“Will Vassos be cross-designated?” Edgeworth asked.
Jacobs stacked the folders on his lap. He pulled one from the pile and spread it open. Glancing at the contents, he said, “I checked with the Legal Bureau, Chief. Only U.S. law enforcement personnel can be cross-designated from one agency to another.”
“Will Vassos have arrest powers?” asked the C of D.
“No, sir. Any collars will be taken by our people. The arrest will be made on the complaint of the Greek Government. The perp will be arraigned in federal court and held pending extradition.”
The C of D smiled. “I assume that we have an extradition treaty with the Greeks.”
“We do. I checked.”
“Will the major be permitted to carry firearms?”
“Technically, no. But since he’ll be traveling under a diplomatic passport, he’ll be able to carry a weapon, if he wants to.”
“What about his living accommodations?”
“The Greek consul general is responsible for making those arrangements.”
“Going on the assumption that they’ll quarter him in Manhattan, I guess we ought to assign the major to a Manhattan command.”
Sergeant Jacobs held his pencil at the ready. “Which one, Chief?”
The undersigned interviewed the complainant, who stated that she could add nothing further to aid the investigation. A recanvass of the place of occurrence met with negative results. Pending further developments, the under-signed requests that this case be marked: CLOSED, NO RESULTS.
Teddy Lucas read the report typed under “Details of the Case” on the bottom of the DD5 Supplementary Complaint Report, commonly called simply the five, the detective form used to report all phases of an investigation. He checked the crime classification code to insure that the fairy tale complied with department policy and procedures and, satisfied that it did, affixed his signature in the space provided on the bottom of the report.
I’ve become a goddamn fiction editor, he thought, reaching into the tray for another five.
The Squad’s caseload last year had been
2,240 cases. These were divided among fifteen detectives, which meant that each detective had to spend a good part of each tour in front of a typewriter banging out fairy tales. But clearances must be maintained. The Palace Guard does not care how you do it; in fact, they don’t want to know how you do it. Just be sure that your clearances are up and your paper is current.
Burglary complainants usually got a phone call, a fast PR job, and sympathy. Robbery complainants got to look at mug shots. If they were unable to pick out the perp, the case would be marked active for a few months, a few fives would be added to the case folder for color, and then the case would be marked: CLOSED, NO RESULTS.
Precious street time had to be spent on the heavy ones: homicides, felonious assaults, maimings, rapes, and any incident involving a diplomat or a famous person. The job was uptight when it came to publicity. Stroke ’em, gently, and make sure that they don’t come in your face, Edgeworth constantly reminded his borough commanders.
As a boy growing up, Lucas used to fantasize about becoming a cop. He wanted to match wits with master criminals; becoming Astoria’s Maigret or Holmes. He was going to destroy criminal cartels, protect the downtrodden. He had been on the job eleven months before he realized that nobody really cared about the downtrodden. And he was in the Detective Division two years before he realized that there was no such thing as a master criminal. There were only mutts – and their wailing lib-blab lawyers who had learned to master an inane, archaic criminal justice system.
Lucas pushed back from his desk and got up. He walked over to the fan on top of the library cabinet and turned it to high. Another scorcher, he thought, ungluing his shirt. He glanced around his office, his home away from home. The rows of clipboards: DD64b Recapitulation of Detectives’ Arrest Activity, DD60 Detective’s Report on Lost or Stolen Property, DD52 Wanted File, Special Operating Procedures, department bulletins. The green leather divan flush against the wall, the splotches of dirt, the file boxes and trays. The maps: Sensitive Locations, Crime Prone Locations. It wasn’t perfect, but it was where he wanted to be: the whip of a detective squad. He still longed to make like Maigret or Holmes. At this point he’d even settle for making like Kojak.
He reached for another five.
Detective Ivan Ulanov stuck his big Slavic face into the office. “Your ex is on the phone.”
“Tell her I’m patrolling the east coast of Tahiti.”
Ulanov nodded and disappeared back into the squad room.
The red telephone on Lucas’s desk rang. “Lieutenant Lucas.”
“Lou, this is Sergeant Jacobs from the C of D’s office,” the voice said, using the diminutive of lieutenant that was routinely used throughout the job. “The bossman wants to see you, forthwith.”
Grabbing his sports jacket off the coatrack, Lucas grumbled, “Everything in this job is ‘forthwith’. Why can’t they once say ‘Report at your leisure’?”
C of D Edgeworth was studying July’s recapitulation of force figures when Lucas entered.
“Sit down, Lou,” Edgeworth said. “I’ll be with you in a second.”
Lucas watched the C of D’s frown at the column of numbers. The massive shoulders and strong hands gave a hint of the man’s brute strength. He looked out of character sitting behind a desk.
“There just ain’t enough bodies to plug all the gaps,” Edgeworth said, tossing the printout into a file tray. He leaned back, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “So? How goes it with your squad, Teddy?”
The old fox knows damn well how I’m doing. But Lucas would stick to the approved ritual: Always have an answer ready, make up any numbers to show you’re on top of things. More important, make the boss feel important. “Everything’s pretty good, Chief. My robberies are down twenty-two percent this quarter. Homicides are down thirty percent. I’ve reduced overtime forty percent – overtime was a biggie – and Inspections gave the Squad an above average rating last time around. And I’m sitting here wondering what you got in store for me.”
A sunburst grin broke across Edgeworth’s face. “Right to the point, Teddy. That’s one of the things I always liked about you, you’re a no-bullshit guy.” He flopped his hands on top of his desk, leaned forward, “How’d you like to get away from the paper and play detective for a while?”
Lucas gave the expected good-soldier reply: “I’ll do whatever you want, boss.”
“Washington just threw us a heavy, and I need a Greek-speaking detective to run with it.”
“Who’ll run the Squad while I’m out playing Kojak?”
“Your Second Whip. Roosevelt can look after things for you, like he does when you’re out getting laid or on vacation.”
“What’s the case?”
Edgeworth told him about Major Vassos and the two murdered Greek policemen.
“What do I do if I need some detectives to hit a flat or kick some ass?” Teddy asked.
“Use your people. Take them off the chart if you have to. And if things get hectic, get on the horn to me and I’ll fly some men in to cover your chart.”
“What authority will this major have?”
Edgeworth explained the nuances of cross-designation and why Vassos would not be cross-designated or authorized to make arrests but would be permitted to carry a weapon. “You’ll have to make out a ten card for him. The Greeks will want to know how many hours a week he worked. Carry him on your roll calls. And Teddy, you’re responsible for his control and supervision.”
“How far do you want me to go with this thing? Do you want me to go through the motions, or do you want me to be for real?”
“All the way. Do whatever is necessary to bring the case to a successful conclusion. The Greeks are going to be conducting a parallel investigation. You’ll keep each other informed.”
Lucas nodded curtly. “When is the major arriving?”
Edgeworth looked at his desk calendar. “Monday, July thirteenth. That’s today. Olympic Flight 812, arriving Kennedy at four thirty-five. So you’ve got just about five hours to fill your Second Whip in on what’s going down before you get out to Kennedy and pick up your new partner.”
“If I’m coming off the chart, I certainly don’t want to catch any borough duties. Are you going to send down a telephone message taking me out of the chart?”
“I don’t want to go that route. I’ll telephone your borough CO and tell him that you’re on a special assignment for me and not to be looking for you for any other jobs.”
“Who do I report to?”
“To me. I want a phone call every day.”
“What about wheels and expenses?”
“You’ve been assigned a confiscated car with Jersey plates. A Buick. You can pick it up in the garage when you leave.” He slid an envelope across to him. “The registration and the keys are in here along with two hundred dollars, compliments of Uncle Sam.” He passed him two signature cards. “Sign these. You’ll be getting credit cards in department mail. Keep receipts.”
Lucas signed the cards and got up. As he was making for the door, Edgeworth called to him. “Whenever the feds ask me to conduct an investigation for them I get this tingling sensation in my balls, like I’m about to get fucked.”
Reaching for the knob, Lucas answered, “I know the feeling, boss.”
Portable steel barriers formed a funnel through which travelers had to pass when exiting the customs area of the International Arrivals Building. People jammed up against the barricade watching the trickle of passengers come out from behind the frosted glass doors, their anxious eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Black-capped chauffeurs, holding up cardboard signs bearing the names of clients, clustered at the neck of the funnel.
Teddy Lucas edged his way through the waiting crowd into the isolation area. A customs inspector rushed over to him. “You’re not allowed inside here, fella.”
Lucas showed him his police credentials. “Inspector Cutrone is expecting me.”
“You here to pick up the VIP from Greece?”
/> “Yes.”
The customs man pushed open the heavy doors. “To your right, up two flights, and then go left.”
The observation deck ran the entire length of the inspection area and was enclosed behind a wall of one-way glass. Agents perched on stools, scanning the deplaning passengers through binoculars. Four agents sat in front of a panel of TV monitors.
“Cutrone?” Lucas asked the first agent he came to.
“Through that door,” said the agent.
Cutrone was a surprisingly small man with a southern drawl and oversized yellow-tinted aviator glasses. “How y’all doin’?” he said, pumping Lucas’s hand while one eye remained fixed on the television monitor. “You’re going to have to bear with me for a bit. We got something going down, down there.” He folded his arms across his chest and intently watched the monitor. Lucas stood beside him.
Hidden cameras zoomed in on a couple moving up to the inspection stand. The bearded husband wore a fur cap and had long side curls. The woman’s head was covered by a kerchief. Lucas’s trained eyes spotted the male and female undercovers inching up to the unsuspecting couple.
“That little ol’ gal down there got a diamond-filled prophylactic stuck up her pussy.”
The husband tossed one suitcase up onto the counter. Suddenly they were surrounded by agents who hustled them off through a door on the side of the inspection area.
Cutrone turned his attention to his guest. “Now to your problem. Your friend landed six minutes ago. He’ll be here shortly.”
Eleven minutes later the door opened and a customs agent stuck his head inside. “Here’s our guest.”
A blue nylon bag was slung over Vassos’s right shoulder, and another was in his hand.
“Welcome, Major,” Lucas said, moving to greet him, noticing both the European cut of his clothes and his grief-stricken eyes. “I’m Lieutenant Teddy Lucas, NYPD.”
Shaking hands, Vassos answered in Greek. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Andreas Vassos.”
“I prefer not to speak in Greek. Do you speak English?”
Black Sand Page 6