Copyright © 2019 by Edward Conlon
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First Edition
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Conlon, Edward, 1965- author.
Title: The policewoman’s bureau: a novel / Edward Conlon.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Arcade Publishing, [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018059388 (print) | LCCN 2018061582 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948924085 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948924078 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Detectives—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. | Criminal investigation—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Biographical. | FICTION / Crime.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O5413 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.O5413 P65 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018059388
Jacket design by Brian Peterson
Jacket photograph: iStockphoto
Printed in the United States of America
For my nieces—
Elizabeth Conlon
Delia Conlon
Anna Conlon
Eleanor Conlon
Caroline Conlon
Lauren Pacicco
Annabella Timpanaro
Maryjane Timpanaro
Grace Conefrey
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Prologue
One a Double Life
1 You Have Your Ups and Downs
2 You Knock At the Door
3 You Will Meet a Stranger
Two Sisters in Arms
4 You’re Not Here to Make Friends
5 You Were Born Ready
6 You While Away the Hours
7 You Belong to Me
8 You’re a Big Girl Now
Three the Case of a Lifetime
9 You’re Only as Young as You Feel
10 You Didn’t See this Coming
11 You Know How this Ends
12 You’ve Heard this Song Before
13 You Do What You Have to Do
Four In a Family Way
14 You Get Down to Business
15 You Can’t Believe How Sweet it Can Be
16 You’ll Know When I Need You to Know
Five Breaks in the Action
17 Your World is Not the World
18 You Win Friends and Influence People
19 You’re the Talk of the Town
20 You Live in Interesting Times
Six Tony, Tony, Turn Around
21 You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone
22 You are Where You are
23 You Put a Nickel in the Slot
Acknowledgments
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Policewomen’s Bureau is a work of fiction based on the life of my late friend, Marie Cirile-Spagnuolo, and was written with her permission and cooperation. I was drawn to her story through her memoir, Detective Marie Cirile, and decided to adapt it as a novel over the course of our long talks. Both of us were detectives in the NYPD, though in different eras. Marie was appointed in 1957, and she was at my retirement party in 2011, three months before she died. The affinities between us were peculiar and deep. She’d lived a few blocks away from where I grew up, in Yonkers, and our families attended Mass at the same parish. Her husband, Sid, retired from the 44th Precinct, in the South Bronx, where I was a detective, and cops I worked with remembered him.
The first question most readers will ask is “How much of it is true?” The short answer: Most of it, and the worst of it. It was hard for me to make sense of what she went through. Though we had much in common, Marie was an outsider and a trailblazer, an Italian in an Irish police department, and a woman in a man’s world. The indignities she suffered, on the job and off, were experiences I could only imagine. And so, I decided to relate them with as little imagination as possible, relying on her versions of events and her emotional reactions to them. Whether this loyalty to the facts, or to my friend, represents a disloyalty to the reader, I can’t say. But I do know that she wasn’t crazy for believing and behaving as she did.
At the same time, when Marie and I talked about this book, I told her I wanted the freedom to invent anything that might improve the story. She told me, “Go for it, kiddo.” I went for it.
Despite the title, this isn’t a “cop book.” It isn’t a thriller or a whodunit. Though Marie saw more than her share of action, and solved more than her share of cases, no crime is as important as the character, how she changed in the changing times. How Marie became herself is the only mystery that matters, and this novel doesn’t solve it.
“‘I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,’ said Alice a little timidly: ‘but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’
‘Explain all that,’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘No, no! The adventures first,’ said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: ‘explanations take such a dreadful time.’”
—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
PROLOGUE
Six women sat on a row of metal folding chairs backed up against a wall. All in their twenties, dark-haired, in bulky black sweaters, dark blue skirts extending below the knee. All white, against a white wall. None too tall or short, too fat or thin. All alike, or enough alike, at least to a stranger. That was the way these things were done. A man watched the women through mirrored glass from a dim and narrow hallway. Another man stood beside him, watching him watch. The second waited for the first to say something. When nothing was said, he asked, “See anyone you like?”
“I don’t—it was quick,” the first man said. He sounded less uncertain than unimpressed. “The sweaters make them—she looked much nicer. Little black dress.”
There was another woman with the men, standing behind the one who asked the question. See anyone you like? She wouldn’t have put it that way. She knew what he meant, but the other man didn’t seem to, and the point was to make him understand. She considered saying something, then decided against it. She was an inspector, the commanding officer of the Policewomen’s Bureau. It was the detective’s case, but it was one of her girls who had made it, and she had called in more of them to see it through.
“Not like-like,” said the detective, with a hint of strained patience. He was an Irishman with cold blue eyes, gray hair in a crew cut, a Brooklyn accent that rubbed like a dull razor. “Take your time. Look at the faces, not the sweaters. They’re all wearing the same thing, so you see what’s different about ’em.”
“Is she there? She’s one of them?”
“That’s for you to say.”
“They all look so frumpy.”
“It’s not a beauty pageant,” the inspector said. “You’r
e supposed to pick out the lady who stole your wallet, if you recognize her. Did she say anything to you?”
“We were at the bar at the Carlyle,” said the man. He was from out of town, a vice president of something, visiting for a convention. Midwestern, tall and thick and fair. “I bump into her, and she says, ‘Careful, big fella! It’s not rush hour!’”
The man hadn’t known he’d been pickpocketed. A female undercover had been observing from the bar, high-signing her backup after the slick-fingered missy caromed into a stockbroker, spilling her gin fizz on his pinstriped lapels. His billfold had been tossed aside before she was cuffed, but the Midwesterner’s wallet was in her purse. They had two cases—two half-cases, one without evidence, the other without a witness, at least so far.
The detective leaned in to a microphone. “Number One, would you please stand up, take a step forward, and say, ‘Careful, big fella! It’s not rush hour!’”
On the other side of the glass, the woman in the first seat did as instructed, moving slowly—reluctantly, it seemed—and speaking in a listless monotone. “Careful, big fella. It’s not rush hour. “
The Midwesterner made a face of uncertain disapproval, as if smelling milk that was about to go sour. Again, the detective called into the microphone. “All right, Number One, sit down. Number Two, same thing.”
The second rose, trembling. Her arms were rigid, her fingers splayed wide. She could have been standing at the edge of a gangplank. Her mouth gaped like a goldfish, but no words emerged. The inspector wondered how guilty she’d look if she’d actually done anything wrong. The detective urged her on. “Come on, now.”
When the third woman leaned over to tug her hem, she jumped up and screeched, “Watch out for the train!”
“No, not her, poor kid,” said the man. “Not the first one, either.”
“Okay, Number Three. Take your time, and speak up. Number Three?”
The third woman didn’t suffer from stage fright. If anything, she seemed too eager for the spotlight. She put a hand on her hip, tossed her head back, and nearly sang, “Get out of my way, big guy, I’m late for the train!”
The detective corrected her, “’Be careful, big fella! It’s not rush hour!’”
The woman seemed cross. “Isn’t that what I said?”
The man leaned over to the detective. “No, it’s not her.”
“If you want,” the third woman said, “I can do it again. I can—”
“Nuh-uh,” said the Midwesterner. “Too—I dunno. I bet her husband has his hands full with her, though. Is she married?”
“That’s enough, that’s fine,” the detective said, rather abruptly. “Number Four? Again, the line is, ‘Be careful, big fella! It’s not rush hour!’”
The inspector wasn’t pleased. Yes, a lineup had to follow a script as old as vaudeville, but none of the assembled understood their parts. The Midwesterner could have been picking out pastries at a bakery counter, and the women were like a motley lot of schoolgirls drummed into auditioning for a school play. The first sullen as a delinquent, the second scared silly, the third believing she was already a star. Would it get worse? Not better, anyway: Number Four rose from her seat as if she were in the fourth grade at St. Rose of Lima and Sister John Margaret had chosen her to lead the Pledge of Allegiance, loud and clear: “Be Careful! Big Fella! It is not rush hour!”
The inspector didn’t disagree with the review: “Eh.”
And then Number Five rose and stepped forward. There was an ease in her voice, sexy in its offhand confidence, and she delivered the line as if no one had said it before, unforced and unfussy: “Be careful, big fella! It’s not rush hour!”
The man bellowed his approval, “That’s her! That’s definitely her!”
The detective looked at the inspector and winced. He turned to the man. “Why don’t you wait for the last one, we’re not finished—”
“That’s her! I’d know her anywhere!”
“Hang on, just wait—“
“We’re finished, Detective,” the inspector said. She spoke into the microphone. “Thank you, ladies. That’s all.”
As the six women began to take off their sweaters, the man paid even closer attention. Vaudeville had become burlesque. His eyes were still on them when he asked the detective, “That’s her, right? The one who robbed me?”
He took out a handkerchief to mop his brow and didn’t wait for a reply. “It took me a minute. I’ve never had anything to do with cops before—Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but the highest regard—but once I saw her, I just knew. I’d never forget—”
The case had been lost, mostly. Two felonies would become a misdemeanor—Grand Larceny in the Third Degree cut down to Criminal Possession of Stolen Property in the Fifth—and then discounted again to next to nothing when the judge heard the case. The women pulled off their sweaters as if they were lice-ridden. Were they? The inspector made a mental note to inquire. The Midwesterner gasped as the differences between the women were revealed. One through Five were positively parochial, in white cotton blouses and crossover ties, navy blue wool skirts. Number Six had a figure like an hourglass, and it was sheathed a blue-black cocktail dress. She looked as if she should be sipping gin fizzes at the Carlyle, which is what she’d been doing a few hours before.
The man shouted, “I wanna change my answer! It’s Number Six! Shit, now I see it. Pardon my French! Who are—what are the other ones? Meter maids?”
“They’re policewomen,” the inspector said.
“Really? Seriously? What do they do?”
“Not nearly enough.”
Four policewomen picked up their sweaters and began to leave. Number Five took out handcuffs from a pouch on her belt and beckoned Number Six to cross her wrists behind her back. Click-click. It was done correctly, the inspector observed, but the commanding presence was gone; the policewoman seemed smaller, vaguer, a little timid, as if she were asking a favor of the woman instead of taking custody of her. The shift was interesting, and all the more impressive to think of her as a shy girl who had risen to the occasion. One of the new ones. Marie? Yes, that was her name. She could blend in or stand out. She knew how she needed to be seen.
“Still, that Number Five, she’s got something,” the Midwesterner said, turning to leave.
“I think you’re right,” the inspector replied.
ONE
A DOUBLE LIFE
1 YOU HAVE YOUR UPS AND DOWNS
Today, tomorrow, next week, we’ll pose as hostesses, society girls, models. Anything and everything the department asks us to be. There are two hundred and forty-nine of us in the department. We carry two things in common wherever we go: a shield—called a “potsie”—and a .32 revolver. We’re New York’s finest. We’re policewomen.
—Beverly Garland as Patricia “Casey” Jones Pilot episode of Decoy
JUNE 12, 1958
2330 HOURS
Policewoman Marie Carrara had a feeling something meaningful had happened, but she’d be damned if she knew what it was. The ID procedure in which she had just taken part was an age-old ritual of the law, solemn as a sacrament, but the whack-a-mole chorus line reminded her of a vaudeville gag. Marie didn’t know what to make of it, or of the girl marching down the stairs in her handcuffs, two steps ahead. She’d first seen the café society stowaway an hour before, when she’d been called for the lineup. Now she had to while away a weary night with her, filling in for the station-house matron whose kid had tonsillitis. Still, Marie was giddy, and she struggled to not let it show. Careful, big fella! She was better by far than the other policewomen. Whatever was happening on the other side of the mirrored glass stopped cold when she stood up and spoke. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? For a few seconds, she felt so wonderfully different that it was as if she’d tried on eyeglasses for the first time, or shoes that fit.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the girl stopped and turned with a shy half-smile. “How did it go?”
“I
dunno,” Marie replied. “But the detective sounded disappointed. That’s good for you, I guess.”
It was as if they were friendly rivals, auditioning for the same part. Could it be that this was the first lineup for both of them? The girl wasn’t much younger than Marie—twenty-five?—but she was top-heavy like a pinup taped to a GI’s locker, and her frock must have cost more than the eighty-six bucks Marie took home for her week’s pay.
“Does that mean I’m getting out?”
“I wish I could tell you,” said Marie. No one had explained anything to her. She was new at this, and she didn’t know whether to believe the older policewomen who told her to pretend to be terrifying to prisoners or the ones who told her to pretend to be chummy. Like nice nuns and mean nuns, and both orders discouraged chitchat until it was safe to talk. The stair landing led to the precinct lobby, and the grim little hallway with the female cells was less than ten steps away. Two cops staggered in, on either side of a slobbering giant in a shredded, blood-soaked T-shirt. The giant howled, “We were on the same bowling team!”
Marie nudged the girl forward. The hall with the cells had one working yellow bulb out of the three in the cobwebbed ceiling, and it reeked of bleach and pee. Gray-green paint flaked from dank walls. Marie guided her prisoner into the cell, uncuffed her, shut and locked the door. Clang, click. Inside were a cot, a sink, a toilet. The girl looked like an orphan when she pressed her face against the bars. “Are they letting me go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re charged with,” Marie said. Now that they were settled, the kooky, kicky feeling came back. She’d done something tonight, whatever it was. She’d never arrested anyone before, but she tried not to let it show. She was familiar with the theory if not the practice. “What did the officer tell you?”
The girl’s expression darkened. “They say I took a guy’s wallet.”
“Well, he didn’t pick you out, so that’s good,” Marie replied, her tone measured. She sat in the rickety metal chair that would be her post until dawn. “Did you have the wallet when they arrested you?”
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