He’d called Samantha Callahan’s place every day since Sunday. He’d wasted last night going to her apartment in the Bronx. Sidney Greene at 1 Police Plaza was good for the phone number and address of anyone on the force. The plainclothesmen in their car had been parked halfway up the block when Taylor arrived, convincing him Samantha wasn’t there and wouldn’t be coming back. She really must be on the run. After the attack in Washington Square, he understood her instinct, but it wasn’t doing her much good. The department had suspended her, and unnamed sources quoted in the other papers had spread the story on Tuesday that she’d abandoned her partner. Taylor hadn’t received that call, which was galling because he wanted to know who was spreading the story. More importantly, the next story he had to break was about what really happened to Samantha during the chase. He needed her for that. He was crazy enough to also want to learn the names of the masked cops from Halloween night, though without getting clubbed or shot in the process.
The crunching of a car stopping on the gravel should have attracted Taylor’s attention and brought him back to the present, but he was too busy with his story’s dead ends.
A rough grip on his shoulder did get his attention. He was spun in a half circle. His coffee flew out of the cup, forming, for an instant, a creamed-coffee-colored sculpture in the air. Time sped up again and two hands pushed him hard in the chest, slamming him into the front quarter panel of the car, a shocking reminder his bruised ribs were far from healed. The blow had enough force to flip him onto the hood.
When Taylor regained his feet, Mason looked up from sniffing, and as he did with every person and thing he encountered, wagged his tail. It was the detective who’d muscled Taylor in front of Mortelli’s squat. The cop extended his revolver at the dog and pulled the hammer back.
“He’s wagging his tail, you fucking idiot.”
The gun swung to Taylor. “You need to be more respectful. Thought I made that crystal the other day.”
The gun held steady. Taylor prayed Mason wouldn’t jump up to say hello. Too many trigger-happy cops in New York right now.
The car’s back door opened. Detective Trunk sat there with a satisfied grin. He took a bite out of his own sandwich and got out. Grease dripped on the sidewalk. Trunk jerked his thumb. The other detective holstered the gun and got in behind the wheel. The guy clearly wasn’t along for his prowess at detection.
“We each have a dog.” He tore off a piece of sandwich and tossed it to Mason. “Yours is no attack dog, though. Not like mine.” He nodded at the car. “I enjoyed that. The look on your face. Worth it to come out here just for that. After you ambushed me in my own precinct. You looked scared.”
“Glad it was fun for you. Says something that yours doesn’t know what a wagging tail means.”
“He doesn’t know what anything means unless I tell him. I need somebody like him. The job’s gotten like that. You should know that much, at least. Some things don’t fit in Dodd’s killing. It bothers me.” Here come the excuses. “But it’s not my worry anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
Trunk pushed the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Christian Slive with the Internal Affairs office at the Oh-Nine took over the case.”
“He had the corrupt cops in the precinct worried.”
Trunk shrugged. “Me, I generally try to stay away from corruption. You either get a bullet in the face or indicted.”
“You came out here to tell me that?”
“The case isn’t mine anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want it handled badly. Dodd was killed in the line of duty. He deserves our best effort.”
Outside Internal Affairs everyone hates Internal Affairs.
“If it’s corruption we’re talking about—”
“I’m not talking about corruption. Where you look is your business.”
“Something I’ve been wondering … you know, let’s say in general. The gangs of dirty cops are supposed to be all gone. The Knapp Commission finished three years ago.”
“There is no all in my world. You turn on the light, the cockroaches scurry for cover. Eventually the light gets turned off again. People forget.”
How could that be possible? There had been so much wrenching change since Knapp was set up in 1970 to investigate bad cops. Arrests, indictments, jail sentences. How was this happening at the Ninth now?
“What’s the story on Callahan?”
“The shooflies are on her now. No one gets out whole. She’s running from something. Are you going to interview Slive?”
“If he’s handling the case—”
“I said he is.”
“Then yes, I’ll talk to him.”
“Good. Someone needs to.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means what I said. I had this case covered. I should still have the file.”
“What about the briefcase? What about the bonds?”
Trunk lowered his backside to the seat and swung his belly around. “What bonds?”
“You can’t make a quarter million dollars disappear.”
“No, I can’t. I can’t do anything. Not on the case. I’m just thinking what’s in the best interest of our city. You should too.”
Chapter 14
Taylor took Mason to the boat, went back and ordered a replacement coffee from the diner and sat at the counter to decide what to do next.
What is in the best interest of the city?
His work had never floated at such airy heights. Report the story. Write the story. The more people knew about the crime around them, the better off they were. They could take precautions. They could demand better policing. He’d never ignored a crime, though Christ knew there were hundreds he hadn’t covered because there wasn’t the time. Felonies got ignored just because of their zip code. Older reporters talked about sitting on stories during World War II. They did that in the best interest of the country. Everyone was on the same side then. All of it went out the window with Vietnam, Watergate, and institutionalized corruption. He couldn’t keep the bonds in his notebook much longer. He had to nail down the facts and get a story in the paper. If anything, Trunk’s oblique warning had only spurred him on. Slive or the Ninth’s commander were the folks to grill. And he would. But right now, the story on the fake radio call was most important. Since Samantha was in the wind, he figured his next stop ought to be her father, Sergeant Mick Callahan.
Later in the day, Taylor took the 6 train to the Hunter College stop and walked over to the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street between Third Avenue and Lexington, a postcard version of a police station, three stories of clean old stone, windows trimmed in blue and a flag hanging over the arched doorway. A sparkling clean firehouse was right next door. Even in the worst of times, the best neighborhoods did okay.
Callahan—short, burly, with wavy gray hair—was just coming off shift at three o’clock.
“Sure, let’s talk.” He signaled to the other side of the street. “Over there.”
They crossed the street and walked past apartment buildings. “Samantha doesn’t understand how dangerous things are,” Taylor said.
“She’s not the only one.”
For the second time that day, a cop slammed Taylor into the side of a car.
“Goddammit,” said Taylor. “This is getting old.”
Callahan delivered a shot to his ribs, landing close enough to the spot where Taylor had been hit Halloween night. The pain had only just started to fade. It returned like blinding light. He couldn’t help but cry out.
“Bad enough they’re spreading stories about my daughter. I’ve got the shooflies all over me. Now you? I’m going to spread you all over this concrete.”
“I didn’t … unh ….” God it hurts. “I didn’t spread any rumors.”
“You’re a fucking reporter. Enough for me.”
Callahan held Taylor against the car.
“Really wasn’t me. The Post and News did those. Check the MT. Held off.”
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“I’m not checking shit.”
A hand fell on one of Callahan’s forearms. “He’s telling the truth.” The hand and arm led to a figure in a bulky hooded sweatshirt, too-large blue jeans and Keds. The voice was a woman’s.
Callahan turned his head while keeping Taylor pinned. “Jeez, I said not this close to the house. You know they’re watching me too.”
“I was careful.” The woman pulled her hood back a little and the shadow underneath shifted enough to reveal Samantha Callahan’s pretty face. Her right forearm was wrapped in a short cast that ended at her wrist. “What about you? This isn’t being careful at all. Leave him alone.”
The sergeant let go of Taylor grudgingly. “You’re lucky. My daughter vouches for you. That’s another thing makes me question her judgment.”
“Thanks, Samantha.” Taylor’s ribs hurt with every breath.
“Let’s get away from here before someone notices.” Samantha started east toward Lexington Avenue. They got to the corner and turned uptown when movement back down 67th caught Taylor’s eye. Two men in suits and trench coats ran straight at them from the precinct.
Taylor touched Samantha’s shoulder. “Don’t think that’s good.”
“Not for them,” said her father.
“Dad, remember. Careful.”
“You get away from here fast.” Sergeant Callahan strode back toward the two men. “I don’t get fucking chased off my patch.”
The two in trench coats made to run around Mick Callahan. They didn’t care about him. Unfortunately for them, Callahan did care if they got past. He bulled into the man running on the left and knocked him sprawling to the sidewalk.
Samantha took a step back down 67th, back toward her dad, and froze. The second pursuer raced past the sergeant, bearing down on Samantha and Taylor.
Callahan turned to chase the second one, but the first grabbed his ankle and brought him crashing to the cement. “Stay the fuck out of it,” the man said. “Or there’s trouble for you.”
Taylor pulled at Samantha’s arm. “You need to get out of here.”
“My dad.”
“Lead them away from him, and you get away at the same time.”
She looked at her father, then up Lexington, and took off north. The lunch crowd was pouring from the office buildings along Lex, turning the sidewalk into an obstacle course. This was a good thing, since their pursuers would have a hard time keeping sight of them. A bad thing, too, since Taylor had no idea if the plainclothesmen were a block behind or right on top of them. After three blocks of just barely keeping up with Samantha, he stopped at 70th to check. Every breath was a stab in the side.
Damn. Too close and gaining. We need to disappear.
He caught back up with Samantha, grabbed her hand and pulled. She yanked back as he tried to cross Lex against the light.
“No!” Taylor insisted, “got to go now.”
He pulled again. They dodged between two cars—honking—sprinted behind the rear of a bus, and would have been flattened by a cab if Taylor hadn’t pulled up suddenly in the middle of the avenue to let it pass. One more lane. As they raced for the curb, a blue-and-white police car skidded to a stop with its bumper inches from their legs. Inside, two patrolmen, furious.
“That won’t help.”
Taylor kept going, sprinting as hard as he could, his ragged breathing a shock of pain with every gasp. Samantha was out in front of him again, so he had to grunt “left” when they made Park Avenue. A block and a half later, he pushed for one last little bit of speed and signaled to her to turn into the North Building of Hunter College. He stopped for an instant to check behind them. They’d made enough distance. No one there to see them go in.
They plunged into a crowd of students and joined one current heading farther into the building. Hunter College was part of CUNY, which meant the population was as diverse as it got. Working class city kids. Punks. A few unrepentant hippies. Professors, some the most unrepentant of the hippies. Taylor and Samantha didn’t stand out because no one really stood out. Taylor just wished he wasn’t huffing like a steam engine. Samantha, the ex-track star, could easily have come in from sitting on a Central Park bench.
When they passed a small student lounge, Taylor turned in and headed for two seats in the corner.
He slumped into one. “Who were those guys?”
“Probably IA. IA’s on the Dodd case. They’re on me.”
“I heard that.” Her eyebrows rose. “Had a breakfast visit from Detective Trunk this morning.”
“What’d he want?”
“He’s off the case. He wants me to ask questions.”
“What kind?”
“That’s what he didn’t tell me.”
Taylor checked the room to see if anyone was paying attention to them—no one was—and lowered his voice anyway. “What if they weren’t IA? What if those two are connected with the three from Halloween night?”
“They wouldn’t do that in broad daylight in front of a precinct. I don’t care how bad things have gotten in the Oh-Nine. Though, after the stories the other papers ran about me, they could be friends of Dodd.” She shook her head. “Sorry. Black humor. Only kind I can come up with lately. They were official. I’m sure of it.”
“Where have you been hiding out?”
“Stayed at my parents’ in Woodlawn until they put a car on the house. Crashed with some friends. None of them cops. All housewives, actually. We went to Catholic school together.”
“They’re homing in on you. We need to confirm your story and get it out there.”
“You don’t believe me?” Her eyes caught fire as she switched from flight to fight in a heartbeat.
“That’s not the problem.” Good way of not answering. “We have what we call in the news business a he said/she said. You say you heard the call. Everyone else they interviewed—”
“Claim they interviewed.”
“They all say there was no call. We need someone or something to back you up.”
“Where do we get that?”
“Let’s get somewhere off the radar and figure it out. You visit the Upper West Side much?”
“Never.”
“Perfect place to go then. My third-or-so cousin has a place.”
The Lighthouse Coffee Shop at 84th and Broadway was actually run by his grandfather’s third cousin. Coffee shops ran deep on the Greek side of Taylor’s family. The man wasn’t there when they arrived, which was fine by Taylor. Disappearing was about not being seen by anyone.
He ordered a coffee. Samantha asked for tuna casserole. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and smiled around a forkful. “Almost as good as Mom’s. The potato chips on top are the key.”
“So why’d you decide to trust me?”
“You didn’t print the lies.” I really hope we can prove they’re lies. “What’s it matter, though? I’m still screwed. When Internal Affairs gets involved, they assume everybody’s dirty. Slive doesn’t get me, then the thugs from the precinct will. They’re going to set me up or take me out.”
“Is there anything you didn’t tell me about the radio call?”
“Told you exactly what I heard. It was on the local channel.”
“How many people would be listening?”
“The chase had just started. Could be a handful, a dozen. No way to know. It wouldn’t be the whole precinct.”
“No idea who was talking?”
She laughed. “Broke in without an ID. Muffled sounding too.”
“If I have to, I’ll interview everyone who worked in the precinct that day.”
“They won’t talk.”
“Good. Printing a bunch of ‘no comments’ and assorted evasions will shake something loose.”
Samantha looked impressed. “Why would you do that?”
“That’s how reporting works. One interview after another. As many as it takes. It’s the only way to get the facts. Which brings me to a possible why for what happened to Dodd, assuming we can figure
out what actually did happen in that condemned building. Kathy Dodd told me her husband had been approached to join a group in the precinct on the take. Happened in late August.”
“News to me.”
“How about Dodd’s mood since then?”
“Definitely more tense in the past few weeks. I asked him if I’d done something to piss him off. He said no and really clammed up after that. I started to think maybe he regretted partnering with me, even though he claimed I wasn’t the problem.”
“Did he do anything odd?”
“One thing was pretty weird. Actually, he asked me to do it. He read off a description of a woman. Wanted me to check for a missing person’s report. Didn’t say why. The mood he’s in, I’m not asking. But this was like detective work. I went through the reports and found what looks like a match. Gave him the woman’s name. That was it. He clammed up again.”
“Do you have the name?”
She pulled out a cop’s leather notebook. “Don’t know why I’m carrying this thing around. Not like they’ll listen to the facts if I ever do go in.” She thumbed up pages. “Her name was Kristy Copper. Report filed October 10th by Jim Nichols of 270 East 10th Street. Her roommate. Profession listed as entertainer. Missing a week when I found the report. Nothing had been done about it yet.”
“Meant nothing to you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Had you heard anything about the corruption from him? Or anyone?”
“No. The boys never let me in on any of their secrets—legal or illegal.” She finished her lunch and nudged her plate a few inches away. “The thing I can’t stop thinking about is the money you found.”
“They’re bonds.”
“Whatever they are. It’s a shitload of dough.”
“That angle’s gotten a little weird.”
“Just what I need.”
“Actually a lot weird.”
“Even better.”
He told her about Trunk’s note and what the detective had said that morning. “I need to find out if they’re still checked into evidence. Were they ever?” Taylor shook his head. “You know I never sit on a story like this.”
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